The Cost of Freedom
by Lovejoypeas
Summary: When the Machine gives Finch and Reese the Number of a young Asian woman working at a nail salon, their investigation becomes a race against time after she threatens her tyrannical employer, Mr. Lee, with blackmail. But Mr. Lee turns out to be a dangerous and savvy opponent, and protecting their number will throw Reese into one of his most daring—and hazardous—escapades yet.
1. Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

"Have you located the salon yet, Mr. Reese?" Finch's voice inquired. "It's not a large establishment, but you should find it right between the Asian grocery store on the corner and one of those dreadful tourist shops."

"'Angel Nails'?" From his rooftop perch across the street, Reese pronounced the name of the salon as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. " _That's_ where our Number works?" Despite the gloom of the overcast skies, he didn't need binoculars to read the garish red script that spelled out the name of their latest number's workplace. "I'll blend right in," he muttered.

Reese's employer didn't reply; his attention had shifted to his computer, fingers tapping away at the keyboard as always. On his screen was a photo of a young Asian woman with straight dark hair and a tired expression, labelled with the improbable name "Shelly June Chan." Alongside it, Finch had just pulled up a photo of a young Hispanic woman—deceased—whose Social Security Number she was using. "Interesting," Finch murmured.

"Finch? You still there?"

The voice in his ear jolted him back to the non-digital world. "What was that, Mr. Reese? I wasn't quite listening."

"Finch, our Number works at a _nail salon_. Any ideas on how I'm supposed to get in there? I'm not exactly part of their regular clientele." Even as Reese watched, yet another woman in smart business attire and high heels pulled open the glass door of the salon, as if to emphasize his point.

"Well, I had hoped you might be due for a pedicure, Mr. Reese," Finch quipped, and Reese detected a mischievous smile in his tone.

"Oh, well I was hoping you might need one," Reese countered promptly. "Really, though, Finch—we may need to call in some back-up."

"You mean . . . a female?" Finch ventured.

"More or less what I had in mind," Reese replied, "unless Bear would like a little more pampering than usual."

Back in the library, Finch turned to the dog. "What do you think, Bear? Would you like to get your nails done properly for a change?"

Bear's ears perked up at the sound of his name, but they quickly retracted again at the mention of nails. Getting his nails clipped was an experience he preferred to avoid, even if it meant the excitement of an outing in the car.

"It appears that Bear would prefer to decline the opportunity, Mr. Reese," Finch said. After a pause, he suggested, "Let's wait until we see where our number goes for lunch; perhaps that will help us determine whether the threat lies within her workplace or outside of it."

"Good. I'll keep eyes on her," Reese said.

And he did, into the early afternoon. Nothing happened. At first he expected that sooner or later she'd be taking her lunch, or that she'd at least step out for a break, but she never left the building.

In spite of his training, Reese began to feel vaguely irritated by the rumbling in his stomach. He hadn't had a bite to eat since breakfast—only a cup of coffee grabbed from a street vendor when their number had disappeared into the back of the shop for a couple of minutes. But he didn't dare step away from his post, since anything could happen while he was gone.

Clouds gathered above him as the day wore on, but they were always in motion, whisking across the sky as if impatient to move on. Yet for all their hurrying the sky remained an unbroken blanket of stormy gray, providing a dreary backdrop for Reese's tedious vigil. For a little while, a light rain began to fall, but thankfully it didn't settle in. Reese wrapped his damp coat tighter around him, and appreciated that his binoculars and camera were water-resistant.

Just as monotonous as the weather were the routines of the workers that he watched through the salon's front window. He could see four or five of them, including their Number, but he estimated that there were eight to ten total, based on the size of the shop. All of them were petite Asian women, though he couldn't quite guess their nationality without a better view of their faces.

That was because the women spent most of their time sitting on low stools or even kneeling, hunched over their clients' hands and feet: clipping, filing, buffing, polishing. After each client left, the manicurist scarcely had enough time to spray down her tools and wipe off the vinyl chair before another client would arrive. Then she would repeat the same strange rituals all over again.

From time to time, a middle-aged Asian man stalked into view—Korean, Reese guessed, based on his features—his arms folded and his expression dour. He seemed to be policing his employees more than supervising them. A change came over the salon workers whenever he entered the room: shoulders tensed, eyes darted up nervously to check for his approval, and the pace of work quickened.

Reese didn't trust any man who had that effect on his subordinates, and pegged him as a possible threat. Eyes narrowing, he stashed his binoculars and camera. He had watched long enough. It was time to pay Angel Nails a visit.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

Sometime in mid-afternoon, the glass door of the salon whooshed open with the sound of jingling bells, ushering in a damp gust of rain-scented wind. It announced the arrival of a tall, lanky man, his face hidden behind the enormous flower arrangement he was carrying. His blue baseball cap and matching jacket were embroidered with the logo of a national floral delivery chain. When he set the bouquet on the front counter a moment later, he revealed a clean-shaven face that was darkly handsome enough to win smiles from the clients who saw it. Even the salon workers who had glanced up from their tasks paused to take a second look.

A small woman with age-crinkled skin the color of milky coffee stood behind the counter. She smiled up at Reese with delight as she caressed the blossoms. "Oh, so beautiful flower! But . . . who these for?"

"I'm supposed to deliver these to a . . . Miss Ava Murphy." Reese read from the gift card. Although he put on a hopeful expression, he immediately wished he had chosen a card with a more believable name, given that all of the employees in the shop seemed to be Asian.

"Meese Avah Murphy?" the woman repeated doubtfully. "I do not know she name. Maybe you bring wrong place?"

"You're sure she doesn't work here?" Reese asked in innocent bewilderment. "Maybe she's . . . the cleaning lady, or something?"

"I do not think she work here," said the woman, "but wait, please. I ask Mr. Lee."

 _Exactly the man I want to meet_ , thought Reese, smiling to himself.

The woman hurried down the main aisle of the salon, and cautiously approached a curtained doorway at the back of the room.

Reese heard her quietly attempt to get the attention of her boss, whose reply came at at least five times the volume of her query. A moment later, the man glowered from around the edge of the curtain, and the woman offered a submissive bow before he shoved past her and strode to the front of the salon.

Bingo. Reese quietly turned on his cellphone behind the bouquet and readied it for forced pairing.

As Reese expected, Mr. Lee turned out to be the grouchy man he had seen earlier lording it over the salon workers. He was a thickly-built, middle-aged man of medium height, and he approached Reese with arms crossed and the insolent air of a man who knows he can win a fight. "These flower," he snapped. "Who they for? I did not order any flower."

"Good afternoon, sir," Reese replied with oblivious courtesy, just to irk the man. "I'm delivering these to a 'Miss Ava Murphy.' Looks like she's one lucky lady!" From behind the huge bouquet, he threw a playful smile at the salon workers as if he guessed the recipient was among them.

The women returned blushes and cautious giggles before Mr. Lee whipped around and incinerated their brightened mood with a fiery glare. He then turned the look on Reese, where it fizzled ineffectively. "'Ava Murphy?'" Mr. Lee spat out the name. "Does it look to you like my employees come from Ireland? You have wrong address."

"You never know in New York City," Reese quipped, with a wink at the ladies. By now the clients were smiling and tittering, offering admiring looks and whispers about the handsome delivery man.

Mr. Lee's face colored angrily at the attention his guest was getting—especially at the expense of his own ego. "There is no 'Ava Murphy' here. You come to wrong address. Get out."

"But see, it says here . . ." Reese began, checking the card on the bouquet. Then, feigning astonishment at his own incompetence, he said, "Uh-oh, looks like you're right! I must have switched around the numbers."

The woman behind the counter looked at the card, too, then gave him a cheery smile as she tapped the address with her finger. "Ah, yes, you bring to wrong place! You see? This number—you turn round like this. Here, eight block away."

"Of course, my mistake!" Reese said sheepishly, picking up the bouquet. One more moment and the forced pairing of the phones would be complete. "Sorry for the inconvenience. I don't know this neighborhood very well."

Mr. Lee was clearly not amused. "You should not have this job if you do not know your way around the city." He narrowed his eyes at Reese. "Otherwise you may end up somewhere you do not belong—somewhere dangerous." After a meaningful pause, he ordered, "Now get out, before I call the police. You are distracting my employees from their work."

With a tip of his baseball cap to the ladies, Reese gathered the massive bouquet into his arms and made his exit, feeling Mr. Lee's laser-beam glare on his back even after the door had swung shut.

Once he was at a safe distance away from the salon, Reese said, "What did you think of Shelly's boss, Finch? Seems to have a bit of a temper."

"Indeed, although that doesn't make him a threat. Perhaps more tellingly, his behavior indicates that he has something to hide. Flower delivery is not generally regarded as a malicious activity, and yet Mr. Lee seemed positively incensed that you would attempt it."

"Maybe he's allergic to pollen," Reese said mildly.

"While I appreciate your humor, Mr. Reese, I suspect that more likely the nail salon is only a front for—hold on, Mr. Lee is making a call right now."

For several moments, Reese heard nothing in his earpiece; then Finch came back on the line. "Mr. Reese? Sorry to leave you hanging. Mr. Lee and his associates were speaking in Korean, so I didn't think you'd benefit from listening in. But you need to know that you're being followed."

Reese darted a quick glance at his new traveling companion out of his peripheral vision. "I wondered about that tail I picked up. Thought he might just like flowers. Do want me to get some answers from him?"

"No, I think not at this point, unless he becomes too persistent. I'd prefer not to show our hand just yet."

"I'll lose him, then."

In short order, Reese succeeded in ridding himself of both the bouquet (given to a homeless woman, who crowed, with a semi-toothless grin, "You remembered!" before planting a wet kiss on his cheek) and the tail (aided by a flock of slow-moving tourists gawking outside a store-front Buddhist shrine). Then he circled back around to his rooftop perch across from the salon to watch and wait.

Several hours later, though, when Finch called to check in, Reese's patience and persistence still had not been rewarded.

"I don't get it, Finch. She's never left her station for more than a few minutes."

"So she hasn't left the building all day?" Finch said, puzzled. "I suppose she could have packed her lunch . . ."

"Well, if she did, she didn't eat it," Reese replied.

"But it's been more than . . ." Finch calculated, "ten hours since she arrived at work this morning. That means her disagreeable employer is in violation of state labor laws, if nothing else. Speaking of which, when I was looking up her Social Security Number earlier today, I discovered that it isn't actually hers; it was stolen from a dead woman."

Finch could hear a raised eyebrow in Reese's reply. "Interesting. Something tells me she probably didn't steal it herself. My money is on Mr. Lee. I wonder what he's up to?"

"Whatever it is, I suspect we're going to have to find out if we want to help Shelly," Finch replied.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

Despite the clouds, it seemed to Reese as if ages passed before the sky grew dark enough to blur the margins of the buildings into shadow and he could finally risk standing to stretch his cramped muscles. Crouching behind various bits of masonry while holding up binoculars all day didn't come as easily as it used to. It reminded him uncomfortably of all the mileage his body had accrued in the years since he first entered the Army.

As he flexed his shoulders, he caught a brief glimpse of the moon, a glowing silver crescent rimming one edge of a ghostly sphere. He gazed up at it for a moment, something he rarely paused to do. Tonight it looked beautiful and deceptively frail, even though he knew it was an ordinary ball of rock.

Reese thought about the many different vantage points around the globe from which he'd looked up at the sky and seen that same familiar satellite circling the planet. He felt as if the sight should offer him some comfort—as if he'd caught a glimpse of an old friend. Instead, it made him feel even lonelier somehow. Not that it mattered much, since the clouds soon swallowed up the sight again, along with Reese's brief moment of introspection, and the night sky became nothing more than a scummy mirror reflecting the city's lights. He was alone again.

Meanwhile, through the long afternoon and evening, Finch had had the task of monitoring Mr. Lee's phone. Listening in on Mr. Lee's calls had made for an exceedingly dull afternoon. His near-constant flow of communication had mainly dealt with the operation of his various salons: supply orders, the logistics of their delivery and/or misdelivery, coordinating staffing, and so forth. All of these calls were carried out in a tone not dissimilar to the one Mr. Lee used with his employees, which made them rather wearing to listen to.

Thinly interspersed were calls of a more lively nature, but hardly more relevant: several whining demands from an impatient mistress or girlfriend, a dinner order of Korean take-out, and a reminder for a teeth cleaning appointment. The only thing Finch was able to deduce from their content was that Angel Nails served the base of operations for Mr. Lee's business enterprises. He could have figured _that_ out without having to endure hours of less-than-riveting phone conversations.

So it was with inexpressible relief that, around 10pm, he heard Mr. Lee announce, "Ladies, line up to receive your pay!" In the background, he could hear were murmured expressions of relief that the long workday was over, and the sound of tired, shuffling feet complying with the order.

Then Mr. Lee's tone and volume changing abruptly. "You are all lazy, and your work is worthless! I do not know why rich ladies pay you to do their nails. I do not know why I allow you to work here. Maybe it is because I feel sorry for you because nobody else would put up with such poor work."

As the tirade continued, Finch could feel his ears growing hot. Mr. Lee continued to insult his workers until Finch heard snuffling and little sobs, as if several of them were in tears. Just when Finch was feeling tempted to find some pretense for sending in Reese just to stop the abuse, Mr. Lee concluded, "Already I give you a place to live, and food; you are lucky I pay you anything. But remember: if you do not do good work, you will end up on the streets."

With this rousing speech concluded, Mr. Lee begin to call out names, and Finch could hear each woman mumble a perfunctory expression of thanks as she approached him in turn. Everything seemed to be going smoothly until after all the checks had been distributed. That was when Finch heard a woman approach Mr. Lee a second time, alone. She addressed him courteously, but with concern in her voice.

"Yes? What is it, Jun? Take your pay and go."

Finch's eyes opened wider. Jun, a common Chinese female name—and strikingly similar to their Number's supposed middle name, "June." He was willing to bet this woman was their Number; he could confirm the visual I.D. with Reese later. For now, he had better listen closely.

"But sir, the money is wrong. This is less than what you said you would pay."

"I already told you: you are lazy, and you do bad work. Besides, you broke a bottle of nail polish this week. That costs $30 to replace and to clean up the mess."

"But sir, I cleaned it up myself!" Shelly sounded puzzled.

"Yes, and you weren't taking clients while you cleaned," Mr. Lee snapped back. "Why do you waste my time? Go."

Shelly was silent for a moment, but Finch could still hear her there, breathing anxiously. Then she ventured, "But sir, I . . . I need what you said you would pay. It is not for myself. I promised to send it to my mother."

"I do not care what you promise to anyone!" Mr. Lee bellows so loudly that Finch cringes. He hears the snatch and rip of tearing paper as Mr. Lee takes back the check. "You work for me now, so you do what is good for my business. You came into this country with nothing—nothing but the clothes you were wearing. I give you everything you have, but still you demand more! You are an ungrateful woman! If you want to complain, then you can go out and join the women in the street—go sell your body to the dirty men of this city. I do not care. I will find women who work hard and know their place."

"Yes, sir," said Shelly, but there is a tentativeness in her voice. In the ensuing break in conversation, Finch hears the bells on the salon door clanging as the other workers head outside.

Then Mr. Lee barks, "What? Why are you still here? I already give you my answer."

"Sir, I am my mother's only child. If you do not pay me, my mother will be sent out of her home and have no food."

"Why should I care?"

Shelly pauses, and Finch listens closely as an edge of threat enters her voice, even as it trembles. "Because if you do not pay me, then I will talk to the police about your _other_ business."

In the silence that follows, Finch can feel a tension as tangible as a rubber band stretched between the two speakers, pulled so taut that it will certainly snap if neither eases their hold on it.

"You wouldn't dare," Mr. Lee hisses, but Finch can hear uncertainty in his tone.

"Please, sir. I would like to stay and work. Only I need the money for my mother.

Mr. Lee relents, but his voice smolders with so much anger that Finch pictures him as a cartoon character with a red and bulging face, steam pouring from his ears. "I will pay you—for now. But if you threaten me again . . ." He left the conclusion hanging.

"Thank you, sir. You are very kind to me. I will work very hard to repay you," Shelly babbles, and Finch can hear both relief and terror in her voice at the risk she has just taken.


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

As the hands on Reese's watch passed 10pm, he began to wonder whether their Number and her colleagues would ever emerge from the salon. Lights had finally begun to turn off inside the building and women were starting to file out the door when he noticed that one had stayed behind. She was talking to an increasingly irate Mr. Lee, and Reese suspected her identity even before he zeroed in with his binoculars. It was their number. He shook his head in admiring disbelief at her daring.

A crackle of static heralded Finch's voice in his ear. "Mr. Reese? Are you still there?"

"Always," confirmed Reese, wearily scrubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. "Looks like our number is having a little talk with her boss. He doesn't seem too happy about it."

So Finch had been right about the woman's identity. "Indeed, I just overhead a conversation between them that I think you'll find rather . . . illuminating."

But just as he began to recount the exchange, Reese interrupted him. "Finch, a big white van just pulled up outside the salon. Ford Econoline. No windows. I don't like the look of it." Reese's hand hovered over his gun as two men got out. One of them opened the loading doors, then they both stood aside to wait.

It didn't take long to figure out what they were waiting for—and it wasn't cargo. As Reese watched, the petite, dark-haired salon workers filed through the open doors, clutching purses or bags, their shoulders sagging with weariness.

"What's happening?" Finch asked, wishing he could see what Reese was seeing. Then again, he could think of many occasions when that wouldn't be such a good thing.

"The salon workers are getting into the back of the van. Here's our Number now. There's two men watching them board, but everyone seems to be going voluntarily. More or less."

"More or less?" Finch echoed.

Reese squinted at the scene, studying it a second time. "It's just . . ."

"What?"

Reese shook his head. "I don't know, Finch. Something's just not right. Something about the van, and those men . . . It's almost like the women are prisoners."

"Well, there's also the fact that our number has been working for, let's see," Finch said grimly, "a solid twelve hours, without ever having taken a break of any length. Angel Nails appears to be little more than a modern sweatshop. But Mr. Reese, I think you should know . . ."

"Finch, I'll get back with you later," Reese said. "I'm going after that van."

Abruptly, Finch found himself listening to a dead line. With a sigh, he rose to make himself a cup of tea and wait for Reese to reestablish contact. Bear, who lay on the dog bed beside his chair, cocked his head and gave a little whimper, sensing the shift in Finch's mood.

"Oh, he's alright for now," Finch assured the dog. "Your master can take care of himself. Most of the time, at least." He plugged in an electric kettle. "I can understand the need to avoid distractions while he's going about his work—that I won't always be able to reach him. Still, it reminds me too much of the time . . ." Finch looked over at Bear, and his eyes were full of such deep pain and sadness that the dog offered another sympathetic whine, and rested his head companionably on Finch's foot.

Finch forced a smile as he bent stiffly to scratch behind the velvety black ears. "But that was before your time, and I truly hope that you'll never have to witness your master in a situation like that. Though in our line of work," he murmured, "I can't make any promises." As he filled his mug from the electric kettle and immersed a sachet of tea, he tried not to think about what sort of hot water his friend might be getting himself into this time.

Not half an hour later, Finch saw Bear's ears perk up, and soon he heard a familiar long-legged stride approaching down the hallway. He turned to Bear with a smile. "See, what did I tell you?"

The big brown and black dog jumped up, tail wagging, comprehending Finch's mood if not his words. Then he bounded down the hall with an excited bark to greet Reese. What Finch didn't admit to Bear—hardly admitted to himself, in fact—was that the tension in his own shoulders eased whenever Reese returned without event or injury.

"Glad to see that your vigil has finally concluded for the day, Mr. Reese," Finch called out as Reese approached, "—even if with little reward. May I offer you some coffee? It's been a long day."

"For both of us," Reese agreed. Finch could sense discouragement, even in his upright posture. "Thanks, Finch, but I think I'll be needing something stronger tonight. I lost the van once we hit the suburbs. No way to tell where they were headed after that."

"Then I suppose our number is on her own for the night," Finch said with a sigh.

With a rumble of discontentment, Reese unholstered his gun, emptied the ammo from his pockets, and stashed both in one of the many informal arsenals he kept around the library.

At first, Finch had objected to Reese's habit of amassing firearms and explosives in their library hideaway. Weapons made him feel uneasy to begin with, and it jarred his nerves to find himself constantly stumbling across drawers full of bullets and caches of grenades whenever he tried to locate a few paper clips. His grumbling had eventually elicited a patient explanation from his employee: "I'd put them all in one place, Finch, except that it'd make one hell of a powder keg if there was ever a fire." After that, Finch had stopped complaining, and had at least _tried_ to find Reese's explanation reassuring.

Weapons were the least of Finch's concerns at the moment, though. "Well, you can be certain that you did what you could, Mr. Reese. We'll just have to hope that she can take care of herself until tomorrow."

"She seemed pretty capable tonight, going up to her boss like that, but that could be exactly what's going to get her into trouble," Reese said.

"From what I overheard, I'm afraid you may be right," Finch agreed. Then he recounted the conversation between Shelly and Mr. Lee while Reese stalked about restlessly, brushing the spines on a shelf of books with his fingertips.

When Finch had concluded his account, Reese said, "So she didn't give us any hints about what his 'other business' might be?"

"Nothing, I'm afraid. She only implied that it was something that would interest the police, which still leaves a rather wide range of possibilities."

"Could be smuggling, maybe drugs, considering his international connections—or prostitution, with all those women working for him," Reese mused. "By the way, where did Mr. Lee go tonight after work?"

"Ah," said Finch, "that's another problem. I'm afraid I lost the signal from his phone quite abruptly, right around the time you saw the van leave the salon. I have to wonder whether he discovered that his phone had been tapped . . . although it's possible that the battery merely ran out."

Reese swore under his breath. "I doubt it, Finch. Something tells me that whatever he's up to, Mr. Lee is expecting trouble."

"The good news, however," said Finch, his fingers moving swiftly over the keyboard, "is that finding his address should be quite easy, with a little help from the city's property tax records. If I just enter his name and . . . Oh, my. This is rather a surprise."

Reese came to look over Finch's shoulder, and let out a low whistle; the list of properties continued beyond the edge of the screen. "Looks like Mr. Lee owns a whole lot of real estate for a guy who runs nail salons."

Finch nodded, marveling as he scrolled down the list. "While it's true that most salon owners operate multiple locations, it appears that Mr. Lee's holdings extend well beyond the commercial realm," Finch said. "In fact, I'd say he has a rather extravagant real estate habit for a man of his supposed means. There are more than half a dozen residential properties listed here, and we're not just talking about efficiency apartments."

"As for his own residence . . ." With a few quick keystrokes, Finch narrowed his search to single family dwellings. Only one entry remained: a multi-story mansion with a lawn as big as a small park, and enough garage stalls to accommodate a fleet of BMWs. Finch remarked dryly, "Let's just say it confirms that he's a man of expensive tastes."

Reese permitted himself a smile. "I'll say. Good work, Finch. I'll check it out tomorrow while Mr. Lee is at the salon. That means you'll have to take a turn watching our number, unless you want to get some of our friends at the NYPD on board."

"Well, actually . . . ," Finch said, studying the far wall uncomfortably. "I think I may have a solution to that particular problem. It just so happens . . . that I've found a way to get inside the salon."

Reese raised a puzzled eyebrow.

"I—" Finch turned toward Reese primly and cleared his throat, "I don't make it a habit to employ the services of unfamiliar salons—after all, you never know whether they sanitize their equipment properly. I decided, however, that it would be prudent to cancel my usual appointment at the men's spa in order to plant a bug in our number's workplace." Finch then turned slightly pink, but with a look that dared Reese to hazard a jest at this confession.

Barely suppressing a smile, Reese said solemnly, "I'm sure our number will appreciate your sacrifice."

"I plan on bringing my own disinfecting wipes," Finch retorted, chafing at his employee's obvious amusement. "Oh, and Bear, too."

"Bear?" Reese looked surprised. "I wouldn't think the salon allows dogs."

"Precisely the point, Mr. Reese," Finch said, pleased at his own cleverness. "Dogs tend to be excellent distractions—and often good barometers of character."

"I'll look forward to eavesdropping," Reese said, with a glint of mischief in his eyes. Then he added hurriedly, "in case you need any help, of course."

"Of course," Finch echoed, with an impish look of his own. He was beginning to look forward to his undercover mission, and to Bear's first—and undoubtedly last—visit to Angel Nails.


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

It was mid-afternoon when a small, primly tailored man with a pronounced limp pulled open the glass door of the salon. He was juggling the leash of a service dog as he tried to hold the door open against the chilly wind, trying to fit through with his dog before it swung shut. The vest-clad dog growled as their entrance set off a cascade of metallic tinkling from the little bells that hung from the door handle. Several of the manicurists looked up from their work to glance at the odd couple, and Finch hushed the dog in Dutch, trying to keep his tone reassuring. Never mind that his own throat felt so dry with nervousness that he could hardly speak.

He found himself in a sort of antechamber to the salon, populated by a few plastic chairs and low tables spread with gossip magazines to occupy waiting clients. A glass-fronted display case that served as a front counter separated the area from the salon proper. Finch's eyes passed quickly over the shelves inside, which displayed an array of nail enamels and treatments. What seized his attention was a forest of disembodied plastic hands modeling nail art, their stiff fingers extending into the air like dead branches.

Finch was so transfixed by this unnerving sight that he didn't even notice the small, wrinkled woman behind the counter until she greeted him, making him jump in alarm so that he nearly lost his balance.

"Good afternoon, sir," she said brightly and a little too loudly. "You make delivery? I need sign?" She mimed the action as she spoke.

"Ah, no," Finch stammered, trying to slow his pounding heart. "Actually, I—I have an appointment, at 3:30, with Shelly. You should find it under 'Mr. Wren'—with a 'w.' I'm a new customer."

"You dog—he stay with you?" She looked concerned at this possibility.

"Why, yes, you see, he's a service dog . . ."

The woman's expression quickly changed to one of alarm. "Oh, no, sir—no pet allow in salon. Mr. Lee no like animal."

"But ma'am," Finch blustered innocently, wringing the leash in his hands, "my dog, Bear, assists me with mobility issues," Finch gestured toward his lame leg, "and he's perfectly safe—rather friendly, actually—and I would prefer not to miss my appointment."

"Very sorry. No pet," the woman repeated, making a broad gesture of cessation. "Mr. Lee say _no_ animal."

The other manicurists were beginning to look up, more interested in the developing situation than in their work. Finch hesitated as he pondered his next move, wanting to provoke the right sort of response, but not wanting to cause any trouble for the employees.

"Might it be possible," he inquired hesitantly, "for me to speak with Mr. Lee? Perhaps I can explain the situation. You see, I need my dog to help me get around."

"Mr. Lee very busy . . ." the woman began, casting a worried glance toward the back of the salon. The salon workers were beginning to murmur to each other in Chinese, giggling and darting glances toward the source of the commotion. As for Bear, he had grown tired of waiting, so he had lain down beside Finch and was now licking his shoe in a contemplative manner.

Then the situation resolved itself quite abruptly. A hand thrust aside the curtain covering the doorway at the back of the salon, and Mr. Lee emerged, calling out a gruff question to the hostess.

So, the Man Behind the Curtain has appeared, thought Finch—though Mr. Lee had none of the round and wispy-white-haired charm of the Emerald City's humbug wizard. Instead, Finch found himself facing a surly-looking, solidly built Asian man in early middle age, with a thick thatch of salt and pepper hair. He would have much preferred to meet Oz the Great and Terrrible.

As Mr. Lee glowered and Anna tried to babble an explanation of how an animal had come to be in the salon, Finch piped up, "Ah, Mr. Lee, is it? I was just asking to speak with you. You see, I have an appointment . . ."

Ignoring Finch, the man turned to the army of staring manicurists, and barked a question then an order in Chinese (not very good Chinese, Finch noted). Immediately, they returned to their work with a frightened intensity. Then, with arms folded, Mr. Lee, having established himself as Lord of All He Surveyed, approached Finch. "Yes, I am Mr. Lee. What do you want?"

Bear let out a soft growl in response, and Finch quickly shushed him before launching into a chattering explanation. "You see, my name is Harold Wren, and I'm afraid I've rather shaken things up by failing to apprise you of . . ."

As he spoke, he sensed that Mr. Lee was sizing him up. Not physically assessing him as an opponent, but doing as Finch had seen tech investors do many times before in his former life: gauging his social status and financial worth, in order to decide whether to appease him or to boot him out the door.

Apparently Finch tallied up favorably, since Mr. Lee suddenly forced a smile and swung an arm wide in a gesture of welcome. "You are, of course, welcome here, Mr. Wren. And we can accommodate your . . . animal, so long as he behaves himself."

"Thank you so very much for accommodating Bear and me," Finch gushed, "I really do appreciate it." Mr. Lee ignored this speech, clapping his hands and calling out more orders in Chinese.

Women came hurrying to escort Finch to one of the salon chairs, offered him a drink, and searched out a place for Bear to lie down where he wouldn't be tripped over. Before returning to whatever realm lay behind the curtain, Mr. Lee cordially said to Finch, "I hope, Mr. Wren, that you find our services satisfactory," and Finch reiterated his gratitude with a broad, false smile.

What Mr. Lee didn't know was that Finch understood Chinese, and that he was silently seething. "Mr. Reese," he murmured, "I'm inside the salon. Did you hear what that man just said?"

"Yes, but I don't know much Chinese. I take it that it wasn't good?"

"I can hardly believe any of these women still remain in his employment, considering the way he was insulting them."

"Maybe they don't have any choice."

"I fear that you may be right." Finch sighed.

"So . . . besides being a tyrant, do you think Mr. Lee is up to anything illegal?"

"I'm not sure yet," Finch said, "but I certainly hope so, since I would love to see the man in custody, considering how he treats his employees. But my manicurist has arrived. We'll talk later."

"Hello, sir. My name is Shelly. I will be doing your nails today," said the young woman who had approached.

Finch heard Reese's voice in his ear again. "Well, as soon as you get a chance, plant that bug. We need to figure out what's going on."

"Hello, Shelly. I'm Mr. Wren," Finch said aloud. Then he murmured nervously, "I intend to try my best, Mr. Reese, but I fear that you may overestimate my talents of subterfuge."

"You're a smart guy, Finch. You'll think of something." A certain forcefulness in Reese's tone implied that he expected Finch to come up with a solution.

"What you say, sir?" Shelly's puzzled voice interrupted the conversation in Finch's ear.

He looked up this time, and saw a slim young woman—in her mid-twenties, perhaps—with a short ponytail of straight, black hair. So this was their number. So far, he had only seen her Chinese passport photo, which didn't do her credit; in real life, she would have been almost pretty if poor nutrition had not given her complexion a mottled appearance. "Ah, I was just remarking," said Finch, "that . . . er . . . I do hope my dog will conduct himself properly."

Shelly smiled. "He look like good dog."

That gave Finch the beginnings of an idea about how to plant the bug: perhaps Bear could help. It wouldn't be a very precise solution, but it would get the job done.

"I don't know what I'd do without him," Finch bluffed (although it was closer to the truth than he would have cared to admit). "So . . . how long have you worked here, Shelly?"

"Four month, three week, and five day," Shelly quickly reeled off as she began filing Finch's nails.

Apparently she had been counting. "Did you live in New York City before that?"

Finch saw an uneasy look pass across her face, but then she replied, "Before that, I come from China."

"It must be a big change for you to come to New York City."

"Yes, it is very big city, and many people. But air here is more clean than at my city. Not burning from factories all time."

Finch fished around for a telling but not intrusive question. "Did you . . . come with your family?"

A scene replayed itself for the hundredth time in Shelly's mind: her mother, a slightly bent and wrinkled version of herself, black hair streaked with gray, hugging her a last time—then once more—before sending her off, making her promise that she will bring honor to her family. Shelly's own voice, assuring her mother that she would, and that she would send money as soon as she was able. She has kept that promise. What her mother does not know is that every dollar she has sent was borrowed.

"No," she said quietly, keeping her eyes on her work, "my mother stay in China."

Finch saw her dart a nervous glance toward Mr. Lee's curtained door before she hurriedly redirected the conversation. "So, you have family? Wife and kid?"

"Er . . . no," said Finch. "Only Bear."

"You lonely?"

Finch blinked. He had forgotten how blunt non-Westerners could be about matters that Americans would consider personal. "Er . . . no. I . . . I have my work, and some . . . friends."

"Friend is good," Shelly affirmed heartily, sensing Finch's discomfort. "You have job? You like?"

In fact, Finch had never really thought about the question. The Machine had begun as a labor of love, a voyage of discovery into an imagined future. What it had become was something else entirely: an inescapable responsibility, however Finch might feel about it—sometimes even a burden. _Did_ he like his job?

Then Finch said slowly, "Yes, Shelly, I suppose you could say I _do_ like my job, although it can be very difficult sometimes." He seized the opportunity to redirect the conversation toward her. "What about you? Do you like your work here?"

Again, Shelly glanced toward Mr. Lee's curtained office. "It is good job. I am grateful." She was a fast worker, and had already nearly finished buffing his nails to a smooth curve.

A strange reply, thought Finch. But besides that, so far his visit had been singularly unilluminating. It was time to get Bear involved.

"I hate to bother you, but . . . I drank quite a large glass of tea just before I came here. Might I . . . use the facilities?"

"Facili-tees?" Shelly looked puzzled.

"Er . . . the toilet." As Finch had already noted, the one-room unit was at the back of the salon, so he would have to pass Mr. Lee's mysterious doorway to reach it. The perfect excuse.

"Ahh, yes, of course!" Shelly said. "Lady room over there."

Finch decided not to dispute this designation, since he could see that besides himself, the salon's clientele was entirely female. His mouth was so dry that it took him three tries before he succeeded in whistling for Bear, and the dog trotted to his side obediently. Rising stiffly, Finch took hold of Bear's harness and proceeded toward the restroom. In his other hand, he hid the bug that Reese had given him.

He would have to time this just right. Finch didn't possess a natural knack, as Mr. Reese seemed to do, for tasks that combined physical acumen with stealth and precise timing. Fortunately, his canine companion did. When he looked down at Bear, the dog's alert expression seemed to say that he was awaiting orders.

It was now or never. As Finch limped back toward the back of the salon, he mumbled multiplication tables under his breath to calm himself, although he could barely hear his own words over the pounding of his heart. Just as he reached Mr. Lee's curtained doorway, he slipped the bug between Bear's teeth, then pretended to stumble—that he could do convincingly enough, at least. As he did so, he whispered an order in Dutch before releasing the dog's leash; obediently, Bear growled and lunged through the curtained doorway.

"Bear! Come back here!" Finch called out for the benefit of Mr. Lee and whoever might be with him. "Bad dog!"

Chaos ensued. Finch could hear the crashing of overturned chairs, and the clamor of men shouting in alarm as a large dog with bared teeth burst into the room with all the terrifying vigor of the Hound of the Baskervilles.

After a long moment, Finch called the dog again, this time adding a much more effective recall command in Dutch. Immediately, Bear stopped worrying the sleeve of one of Mr. Lee's men and dashed back to Finch's side, panting happily. Finch murmured a quick affirmation of a job well-done.

A split-second later, Mr. Lee stormed out of the room, shoving aside the curtain even as Finch began a hasty stream of apologies.

"What is the meaning of this?" Mr. Lee bellowed. "This is private area." He pointed to the sign above the doorway. "I told you to control your animal, and now see what he has done? Now take this beast and get out, or I will call police!"

Now that he had accomplished his task, Finch was just as ready for his exit as Mr. Lee. "I'm so sorry, sir, that my dog has caused all this trouble," Finch babbled, "You see, I was going to use the restroom, and I tripped, and well . . . I'll be happy to pay for anything he has damaged," Finch offered lamely. "

Through narrowed eyes, Mr. Lee studied him for a moment. "Yes. Yes, you will. Leave your information at the desk. And don't come back!" he snapped.

Finch pitched a few twenties onto the front counter as he headed for the door. By sheer force of training, the woman behind the counter called out, "Thank you, sir, please come again!"

As the door swung shut, Finch cast an awkward smile in her direction and tightened his grip on Bear's leash. He caught a glimpse of Mr. Lee still standing at the back of the salon in the curtained doorway, glaring after him. "That's very kind of you, ma'am," he murmured, "but I think I won't."

When Finch reached the end of the block, he finally allowed himself an exhalation of relief, even though his hands were still trembling from his incursion into enemy territory. Apparently the experience had affected Bear in quite the opposite way; the dog was panting happily, completely at ease, as if he had just had the time of his life.

"I'm glad one of us enjoyed that experience," Finch said to the dog. He, for one, was looking forward to returning to the familiar environs of the library, a refuge from both human interaction and the damp chill of the autumn air.

Just then, a click of static announced Reese's voice in his ear. "Finch. How'd it go?"

After glancing behind him to make sure he hadn't been followed, Finch reported, "Mission accomplished, as they say. Bear did his job admirably. Though I doubt I'll become a regular customer at Angel Nails, since Mr. Lee was threatening to call the police by the end of our visit."

"Well done, Finch," Reese said with joking admiration, "I didn't know you had it in you."

"I rather wish I didn't," Finch said ruefully. "Did you find anything informative at Mr. Lee's house?"

"You mean Fort Knox? I couldn't even get close. There was a fence around the property—and I don't mean the white picket kind. Between that and the guards at the gate, there's no way to get near it in daylight."

"That would seem to confirm that our number's boss is either afraid of something, or hiding something," Finch said, "and his attitude thus far inclines me to think the latter."

"Hopefully your bug will get us some good intel. Otherwise, I'll have to break in tonight after I find out where that van is taking our Number. I'm heading back to keep an eye on her for now."

Finch pulled his coat closer around him against a blast of November wind, and he felt a twinge of guilt as the bleak reality of Reese's work struck him. Soon Finch would be back at the library, sipping a hot cup of green tea at his desk, with Bear gnawing an extra-large chew stick beside him. Meanwhile, his employee would be stationed on a rooftop—or some other equally incommodious vantage point—without any creature comforts, exposed to the elements, and counting the endless minutes until darkness would fall.

"Thank you, Mr. Reese." The words came out suddenly, before Finch could really think them through.

"Just doing my job," Reese said, then signed off.

At those simple but sincere words, Finch's guilt lifted, and his heart swelled with an unexpected pride. Back when he recruited Reese, Finch had seen his own role primarily as that of employer, and secondarily as benefactor. Secretly, he had hoped to compensate Reese in some small way for his own role—however inadvertent—in the events that had pushed the ex-CIA agent to the brink.

But Finch had got more than he had bargained for. Their work together had become _Reese's_ mission, too—not just his own or the Machine's. Fueled by a new purpose, John had turned out to be much more than an alarmingly effective hired gun; he had proved to be a loyal friend, an ally, a man of character and astonishing resilience. Challenges that would have destroyed lesser men seemed to be the grit that refined him.

Still, Finch might not have returned to the library with such a clear conscience had he been able to foresee the heavy toll that this mission would demand from his colleague and friend.


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

"I tell you, I don't like it. That dog—it looked like a police dog. The small man was talking to it in a strange language."

"But that little man? He is crippled. He can't be police!"

"Maybe that's what they want us to think. It could be a trap!"

In the back room of the salon, Mr. Lee's men were retrieving scattered playing cards from the floor while speculating about their uninvited visitor and his master. Eventually, though, they fell to arguing over the more practical matter of who had been winning when the game was disrupted.

At this inopportune moment, Mr. Lee returned, and snatched the reassembled deck of cards from the man who held it. "You think I care who wins? What I want to know is why two strange men have come here, two days in a row! I think someone is trying to interfere with our business."

"The big one with the flowers could be working for the Italians," suggested one of the men.

"Or the Russians," said another.

"But what about the little one?"

"Maybe he's the brains, not the muscle."

"Do you think they're working together?"

"You are wasting my time with these guessing games!" Mr. Lee burst out, scattering the cards again as he flung his hands up in frustration. "What I want to know is who they are, and how much they know—and," his eyes narrowed as he swept his men with a suspicious glare, "I want to know how they _found out_."

Immediately, a chorus of voices disclaimed any treachery or thought thereof, with all the vigor of men blaming the dog for having passed gas. When the clamor died down, one of them piped up, "What about the girl last night—the girl who complained? She was saying she would tell the police."

"Yes," Mr. Lee scowled, "the girl who doesn't know her place. I doubt she is brave enough or stupid enough to do as she said, but we should make sure." He thought for a moment, then declared with an unpleasant smile, "I will send her out for coffee. You, and you: follow her. Find out whether she knows anything about those men. Do not harm her, but make sure she will not get such foolish ideas again."

"Yes, boss!" The two appointed henchmen happily abandoned their card game to do his bidding. The shorter, more heavily built of the two pulled a knife from his ankle sheath and checked the blade against his finger, while his taller, leaner counterpart cracked his knuckles in anticipation. A little intimidation beat a lazy afternoon of poker any day—especially since neither of them had been winning.

Mr. Lee's henchmen weren't the only ones who appreciated the change of pace. When Reese's earpiece awakened with a soft buzz of static a moment later, the urgency in Finch's clipped sentences made his pulse speed up. "Mr. Reese, our number is in imminent danger. Mr. Lee is sending two of his men to intimidate her. She should be coming out of the salon any minute now. They want answers about the threat she made last night, and they have license to intimidate her."

"I'm on it," Reese said. Finally, it was time. He appreciated the importance of surveillance and could perform it well, but his mind and body always waited like a coiled spring, straining toward the moment of action.

From his current vantage point—across the street diagonally from the salon, in front of a shop selling knock-off designer handbags—Reese had a clear view of the salon's front door. A few minutes later, just as Finch had predicted, it swung open, and their number walked out.

"I have eyes on her," Reese said. He didn't approach just yet, but kept her in sight, beginning a leisurely stroll down the block as if window-shopping. He wanted to size up her pursuers before closing in.

They had traveled nearly two blocks before he spotted the first one: a heavy-set man, thick and short, cutting across the middle of the street, trying too hard to look casual as he joined the foot traffic on the same side as their number. Reese informed Finch, "I think I've just sighted one of her new friends." As he spoke, a second man caught up with the first, this one leaner and slightly taller. "And here's his sidekick."

The hunt had begun. The two men continued together—Shortie and Stringy, Reese informally named them—lagging about half a block behind their quarry. Reese fell into step about ten paces further back, a distance he could easily close with a few long strides. At times like this, he especially appreciated the advantage of his height.

Over the next two blocks, as Shortie and Stringy began gradually closing in on their target, Reese quickened his pace accordingly, weaving between pedestrians to keep sight of his prey, his pulse accelerating slightly in anticipation of a fight.

He saw their number dart a quick glance over her shoulder, as if she sensed someone behind her. But her face displayed only a puzzled premonition, and she seemed to shake it off as she saw no obvious danger. Clearly she had no idea what was coming. Fortunately, thought Reese, neither did her attackers.

A block and a half later, it happened: Shortie glanced to the left, and Reese's eyes followed his gaze. Just ahead of their number, two tall buildings parted to reveal a sliver of shadowed alleyway—the perfect spot for a mugging. The two men exchanged a quick look, and Shortie gave a curt nod. They would make their move any second now.

Then it happened. Shelly was gone, with barely more than a gasp of alarm before her assailant's hand was over her mouth. Reese only just noticed the flick of her extended foot above Shortie's worn brown shoe as they disappeared between the buildings. Stringy furtively scanned the area to check for unwanted witnesses, then dove into the narrow space after them. Reese followed close behind.

Halfway down the narrow alley, Stringy stood with his back turned toward the entrance, while Shortie held Shelly pinned to the wall, pressing a long knife against her throat. Stringy was leering threateningly while Shortie murmured something ominous in Chinese to their victim. Her breathing made a quiet sobbing sound that pulled at Reese's heart, but years of experience had taught him to act with careful deliberation.

Still, that didn't mean he couldn't have some fun. From around the alley's entrance came the clatter of a trash can lid and the offended yowl of a cat, and both men automatically looked in the direction of the noise. Reese's fist met Stringy square in the face, and he was gasping on the ground from several punches to the chest and stomach before he could even lift a finger.

Shortie, to his credit, was not slow to take action. He shoved Shelly deeper into the alleyway, then turned his knife on Reese, taking up a stance that suggested a knowledge of martial arts. That was fine with Reese. In such narrow confines, his gun would be useless, but his fists and feet were still formidable weapons.

While Shelly huddled on the grimy asphalt against the alley wall, Reese locked eyes with his opponent. The two men began to circle, entering into a deadly dance of evasion and attack.

Shortie made the first move: an experimental stab at Reese, who swung out of the way, then dodged the spinning side kick that followed. Reese tried to close the distance with a front kick before his opponent could strike again. Shortie pivoted aside, only just catching the end of the roundhouse that followed and easily ducking beneath the back punch that Reese aimed at his head.

Shortie could see that he was going to need his knife to win this thing. He took a slash at Reese's chest, but with a shoulder-high crescent kick, Reese blocked his opponent's swipe, then succeeded in grazing his face with a punch.

The only problem was, Shortie turned out to be even shorter than Reese had guessed. Although the man grunted from the blow, it struck his forehead instead of his nose, and he ducked the follow-up punch Reese threw. Then, with a powerful leap, Shortie sprang up into the air, shouting as he plunged the knife down toward Reese's chest.

There was no time for fancy moves. Reese swung out hard with his left arm to deflect the weapon. He succeeded, but at a cost: the blade caught his forearm, slicing through his jacket and shirt sleeves and opening a searing path in his arm.

Reese scarcely blinked as he threw a high punch with his opposite arm. This time, it connected satisfyingly with Shortie's temple, stunning him. Seizing this brief advantage, Reese lunged forward. He locked his left arm around Shortie's extended knife arm, twisting it elbow-upward, then delivered a swift blow with a right hammer fist.

The knife clattered to the ground as his adversary collapsed, shrieking in pain. Reese temporarily put the man out of his misery, knocking him out with a knife-hand strike to the back of the neck that made Reese's hand smart.

After pausing to make sure that Stringy was still down (in fact, he had cleared out entirely), Reese straightened his jacket and stepped around his remaining crumpled adversary. He kicked the fallen knife into a bank of overflowing trash cans, then approached their Number, who was still huddled near the back of the alley.

Reese crouched down in front of her. "Shelly, my name is John. I'm here to help you. Are you alright?"

Shelly looked up into her rescuer's deep blue eyes and met a gaze that was resolute yet compassionate—a look that assured her instantly that this was a man she could trust. Overwhelmed by the events of the last few minutes, she began pouring our her fear and gratitude and relief in a stream of frantic Chinese, gesticulating wildly as she told her story.

Reese gently interrupted her in the same language to inform her that he spoke Chinese only poorly. The young woman found this so bewildering that she began to laugh a little hysterically. Throwing up her hands, she managed to say in accented English, "You are stranger that know my name? You speak Chinese? Too many thing, I do not understand!"

"I can explain everything, Shelly," Reese said, trying to calm her with a hand on her shoulder, "but we should get out of—"

He was interrupted by Shelly's cry of alarm. "Ah! You are hurt!" When he reached out, she had seen the flash of crimson and white where the knife had slashed through his jacket sleeve. Blood was dripping from his forearm onto the asphalt in a slow, dull patter.

With a dismissive glance at the wound, Reese said, "It's not serious. I'll take care of it later." In fact, it appeared to be a rather deep cut, but there was no reason to worry her with that information. He placed strong hands on both of her shoulders. "Are _you_ alright, Shelly?"

Shelly swallowed, then nodded uncertainly. "Yes, but . . . these men—my employer send me buy coffee, and they follow me, I think. Then I walk by this place and they attack me." Her voice broke, and she hugged herself protectively as the tears began to flow again.

At the mention of the attackers, Reese glanced toward the place where the men had fallen, and found that both had now retreated to safety. Good riddance. Turning back toward Shelly, he asked gently, "Do you know these men?"

For a long moment, Shelly hesitated. Then those piercing blue eyes broke through her defenses. "I think . . . I think that Mr. Lee sent. He own salon that I work there."

"Sounds about right, " Reese agreed grimly. "Do you know why he sent them?"

"They tell me Mr. Lee angry," she said, but then broke off, unwilling to explain further. "But how you know? Why you help me?"

"It's my job—helping people that no one else can help." Then Reese's expression became grave. "Shelly, we think your life may be in danger. Can you think of any reason why your boss would want you dead?"

"Dead?" Shelly repeated, aghast. "No, no, they only try frighten me." But then her brow furrowed, and she averted her eyes, dodging his piercing blue gaze as if it might flush out her secrets like a searchlight beam.

Reese saw the change in her manner. "What is it, Shelly?"

"Nothing," she insisted, "There is nothing. I do not know." Quickly, she changed the subject. "Your arm. It is bleeding very much. You need doctor." She reached toward his injured wrist.

Gently, he stopped her hand. "Shelly, you're the one who's in danger. But I can help you better if you'll tell me what's wrong."

She turned away, still avoiding his eyes. "I cannot tell to you. I must go now. I must bring coffee before Mr. Lee become very angry." She stood, shaking the debris from her knee-length skirt.

"Please, Shelly. You got away this time. But next time you might not be so lucky."

This time she offered him a shy smile. "No, is not 'lucky'; is you help me. Thank you, Mr. John. And my name—my _own_ name—is Jun."

Reese returned a slight smile, appreciating this confidence for what it was. "Any time, Jun." Then he fished a palm-sized object out of his jacket pocket, then held it out to her. "Here, take this at least. It's a tracking device, and there's a button inside. If you need help, push the button, and I'll come as soon as I can."

The little object looked just like an ordinary make-up compact that a woman might carry in her purse, but as she watched in fascination, Reese flipped open the lid and showed her the button hidden inside. After he had demonstrated how to use it, he tried to press the compact into her hand.

Keeping her palm open, she accept it tentatively. "I take it . . . but only you let me take care for you hurt arm."

Reese glanced down at the wound. It was still bleeding, and even in New York City, trailing blood down the sidewalk tended to draw unwanted attention. Besides, he couldn't suppress a slight smile at her feistiness after what she'd just been through. "You strike a hard bargain," he said, pretending to consider her offer with mock seriousness. Then he smiled. "But . . . it's a deal."

"Deal," she echoed, smiling.

In that smile, Reese saw clearly the brave, spirited young woman who had left her own country in hope of a better life. It made him all the more determined to help her escape the drudgery of Mr. Lee's salon.

Reese escorted her to the nearest Starbucks, following at a modest distance. While she completed her errand, he kept watch outside the store, trying to lounge casually near the entrance while keeping one hand clamped over his left forearm. As he waited, he scanned the street for unwanted company. He was relieved to find no sign of Shortie or Stringy, or of anyone else displaying an undue interest in their number.

But Reese knew this reprieve was only temporary. Mr. Lee's henchmen had failed, which meant that he hadn't yet solved his problem. A man like Mr. Lee was certain to try again.

Reese was distracted from this dark thought by Shelly's emergence from the shop, balancing a cardboard caddy of steaming espresso beverages. As he opened the door for her, she cast a worried look at his arm, and offered him a large wad of brown paper napkins. "I am so sorry. I find only this. You must go to doctor, I think."

Accepting the napkins with a warm hint of amusement in his eyes, Reese said, "I'll be fine, I promise. Now," he said, his tone turning serious, "I'm going to walk you back to work. Don't worry—I'll make sure your boss doesn't see me—but please, Shelly, won't you tell me what's going on? The more I know about what's wrong, the better I can protect you."

For a long moment, Shelly was silent, and he could see the equivocation in her eyes. But as soon as she glanced toward the salon, the indecision turned to fear. "I—I cannot tell you," she stammered quickly. "I am very sorry. You are so kind. Good-bye."

Then she turned away before her resolve waned. She wanted to tell him everything, to let the secrets rush out like a waterfall right then. But she knew she couldn't. Her employer was too powerful. True, this man had made short work of two of Mr. Lee's henchmen, but there were dozens more where those came from. If this man tried to intervene, sooner or later he would end up dead.

Shelly felt a presence close behind her for a moment, and she heard the kind man's voice speak softly near her ear. "Remember, Jun, if you change your mind, just push the button." Then he was gone, as suddenly and silently as he had arrived.

As he watched her walk through the door of the salon, Reese tightened his grip on the sodden wad of napkins he held pressed against his wound. He had to fight the urge to follow her, to snatch her away to safety right then. But without her testimony or some other concrete evidence, the police would have no interest in hearing their suspicions about the unlikable Mr. Lee. Reese hoped they could find that evidence soon—before it was too late.


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

"Finch, you don't look so good," said Reese.

Looking up abruptly from his station at the computer, Finch found Reese standing behind him, as if he had been teleported into the room. Despite his build and stature, the man could move with disconcerting stealth when he wanted to.

"Ah, Mr. Reese," Finch said a little shakily. "I didn't expect you back yet. I was listening to the activity in Mr. Lee's office—or rather, I was doing so until the screaming began. It seems that you were very . . . effective . . . in deterring Mr. Lee's henchmen from assaulting our number."

Reese strolled alongside his employer and put a casual hand on the back of Finch's chair. "A dislocated elbow is awfully painful," he mused.

"And relocating one is, apparently, even more painful." Finch said, raising an eyebrow at Reese. Then he saw Reese's left arm, and lurched backward in his chair, gripping its arms for dear life. "Mr. Reese! You're bleeding all over the floor."

Reese glanced down with alarming nonchalance at the collection of red spatters on the floor below his arm, then at the corresponding trail that led back down the hallway. "Just a little work-related accident. Came back here to clean up." He strode over to a sink in an adjacent room, stripped off his jacket, and turned on the tap.

Hobbling after him and shaking his head in exasperation, Finch carefully sidestepped the crimson trail and retrieved Reese's discarded jacket from the floor. While Reese stood at the sink, holding his forearm under the running water, Finch grasped the left sleeve of the garment between thumb and fingertips and extended it gingerly, wincing at the stiff wetness of the material and the long slash through the lower part of the sleeve. "It appears that I'll need to contact my tailor about fitting you with a new jacket— _again_."

Reese's turned to look over his shoulder. "Might want to order two, while you're at it."

Finch couldn't tell for certain whether he was joking. "Perhaps I can persuade him to offer us a quantity discount," he replied wryly, "considering the rate at which you go through them."

Setting aside the ruined jacket, he fetched the first aid kit and set it on the counter beside Reese.

"Will you be needing my assistance, Mr. Reese?" Finch asked, clearly hoping that Reese's answer would be in the negative.

Reese studied his wound for a moment, and Finch tried not to look in the same direction. "I think I can handle it," said Reese.

With a definite sense of relief, Finch retreated to a safe distance. He didn't have much stomach for the clean-up process, so except for the few occasions when Reese required a second pair of hands, he preferred to stay out of sight.

After he heard the tap turn off, Finch waited until the sounds of Reese rifling through the contents of the first aid kit had ceased before continuing the conversation. "So, did your encounter with our number and Mr. Lee's thugs shed any light on her troubles?"

"She wasn't in a mood to talk about it, although it's obvious something's wrong." Then Reese let out sharp hiss, followed by a grunt. Finch cringed; that would be the antiseptic.

Finch left a pause for Reese to recover his breath before agreeing, "I can hardly blame her after meeting Mr. Lee, especially given that he commissioned those two thugs to threaten her—possibly even to hurt her. So how shall we proceed, in light of this development?"

"Well, I'll put a tracker on that van tonight and follow it to find out where she lives. Maybe that'll give us some leads. If not,I'll just have to break into Mr. Lee's house and see if I can figure out what 'business' he's in."

"Might I inquire, as your employer, how you plan to accomplish such an escapade, when you found his residence so impenetrable by daylight?" Finch asked skeptically.

"Of course, Finch," Reese said, adding with an air of mischief, "if you're sure you really want to know."

Finch threw Reese a we-are-not-amused look, but instantly regretted the indiscretion. Reese, his brow furrowed with concentration, had just begun to apply Steri-Strips to a diagonal cut several inches long across the top of his forearm, and Finch's stomach flopped like a half-dead fish in a Chinatown market. Perhaps more disturbing than the sight itself was that he appeared to be closing the wound as dispassionately as if he were taping up a package.

"Actually," Finch said with a shudder, "I'm not so sure I want to know." He took a fortifying breath, downing the lungful of air as if it were a stiff drink. "Still, I suppose you had better at least outline my part in it— _after_ ," he said emphatically, "you have completed your present task."

"Alright, Finch," Reese replied solemnly, "I'll tell you when it's safe to come out." Although Finch didn't dare check Reese's face for the barely suppressed smile he suspected, there was no mistaking the undertow of amusement in his tone.


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

Shelly was performing the familiar rituals of closing up her station for the day—flicking off the lights above the big mirror, wiping down the vinyl seat of the client chair, disinfecting her nail clippers and tools—when she heard Mr. Lee's voice from the back of the salon. "Shelly! I wish to speak to you."

Instantly, Shelly's neck and shoulders tensed. Mr. Lee knew about the man who had offered to help her. He _must_ know. Of course his men would have told him what had happened in the alley. Why didn't she think of that? Why hadn't she accepted the tall man's help when she had the chance?

She turned to see Mr. Lee standing in the curtained doorway of his office with arms folded, a forbidding rectangle of a man with his thick neck and square shoulders. His expression offered no obvious clue as to his intentions. If he meant her harm, though, there would be very little she could do about it. Fighting down her rising sense of dread, Shelly folded her hands in front of her and offered a slight bow. "Yes, Mr. Lee."

When he pushed aside the curtain for her to enter his office, she found herself facing several of his men. Most were standing, but two were seated at the table, and their expressions soured when they saw her. Even if their bruised faces and the sling supporting the arm of one had not given them away, she would have immediately recognized her attackers.

Shelly tried to look calm even as her clasped hands were becoming damp with nervous sweat. Her heart was pounding so hard that she was certain everyone in the room could hear it.

Mr. Lee pulled the curtain back into place and faced her, his arms still crossed. "So," he said, "my men tell me that you have a friend—a _man_ friend."

At this, Shelly's anger burst through her fear, and her fists clenched. "Your men _attacked_ me!"

But Mr. Lee would not be distracted. "Who was that man?" He took a threatening step closer. "Is he police? Is he your lover?"

Shelly gave a dismissive laugh. "I do not know; I have never seen him before." But as soon as she said the words, she knew that it wasn't entirely true. No, she didn't _know_ him, but an image had flashed through her mind: the man who had tried to deliver flowers yesterday. She was almost certain it was the same man. But why had he come? Who _was_ he?

Mr. Lee saw the change in her face. "See!" he declared. "You are lying."

"No, no, I am telling the truth," Shelly insisted. She decided to risk an explanation, since it might avert Mr. Lee's wrath. "It is only . . . the man who delivered the flowers." She looked up at Mr. Lee with a puzzled expression. "I think it was the same man. Maybe he recognized me from the salon. I do not know."

"That is nonsense," scoffed Mr. Lee. "Why would he help you—unless you are worth something to him!"

"I am telling you, I do not know why. Perhaps—" And again, in her mind's eye, she could see the strength and kindness in the man's deep blue eyes. She shrugged. "Perhaps he is just a good man."

Mr. Lee gave a disdainful snort. "There are no 'good men.' Men always do things to _get_ something, unless they are fools."

"How would you know about good men?" Shelly retorted, before she could think.

With a swift movement, Mr. Lee slapped her hard across the face. She yelped in pain and surprise, and put her hand to her cheek as he hissed, "Remember who pays your wages. Remember who gives you a roof over your head. Now tell me," he demanded, "who is that man? Why is he watching you?"

"I do not know!" Shelly insisted with increasing desperation. "Maybe he knows something about you. But I swear, I did not tell him anything. He only came to help me because he saw that I was in danger!" Of course, she kept to herself what the man had said about Mr. Lee being the _source_ of that danger.

She waited anxiously as he studied her with narrowed eyes, awaiting his verdict. Finally, he said, "Maybe you are lying. Maybe you are telling the truth. But either way, I give you this warning: if that man interferes with my business again, I will kill him _and_ you." That proposal met with enthusiastic affirmations from Mr. Lee's men, who seemed eager to get payback for their injuries. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," Shelly said softly. Tears sprang to her eyes. What could she do? How could she warn the tall man? Then she remembered the small compact he had given her. She would have to risk it; she would have to push the button.

"Go," ordered Mr. Lee, "and do not let me see you talking with any strange men again."

With bowed head, Shelly turned to go, her heart brimming with anxious anticipation at the risk she was about to take.

Then just as she reached the doorway, Mr. Lee abruptly caught hold of her shoulder. "Wait! Perhaps he gave you something—maybe a note, or a card with his name. Search this little spy before she leaves!"

Shelly felt as if the floor had disappeared from beneath her. They were sure to find the compact. She could only hope that they wouldn't figure out what was inside. Whatever she did, she must not show any fear; she must not give them any reason to be suspicious. She raised her chin. "Go ahead. You will find nothing of value."

After two of Mr. Lee's henchmen had spent several minutes turning out Shelly's pockets and pawing through her clothes while she shifted self-consciously, they had collected only a meager bounty. Spread out on the table were a stray earring missing its back, a packet of tissues, a few coins—some Chinese and some American, a tube of cheap lipstick, and the compact the man had given her.

"This is all?" Mr. Lee said with a dismissive wave.

"See? I am telling the truth," Shelly said, lifting her chin. "There is nothing."

For a moment, Mr. Lee studied the collection. Then he turned to her with a scowl. "You can go now."

But when Shelly reached out to gather the items on the table, Mr. Lee stopped her hand. "No. Leave those here. We will return them to you later."

"Yes . . . yes, sir," Shelly stammered, trying not to sound as frightened as she felt. Trying not to look at the false compact lying on the table, still within her reach. Trying not to panic as her only hope for rescue fell into the hands of the very man who had threatened to kill her.


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

During his stopover at the library, Reese had changed into dark clothes to enable him to move through the shadows unnoticed during the night's adventures. He wore black pants of a more casual cut to allow for easy movement, and he had chosen a long-sleeved black shirt to hide the white bandage wrapped around his left forearm. His motorcycle waited in a nearby alley, ready for quick retrieval.

Now all he had to do was wait—the hardest part of all.

Twilight had darkened the clouds to a deep grayish-purple, leaving only a faint rim of pink and lilac on the horizon, when the evening took at unexpected turn. Reese was checking the front window of the salon, making sure that their number was still in sight, when the white van pulled up.

That meant it was time to set his plan in motion. Step one: attach a tracker to the van. He peeled himself away from his hidden vantage point and merged into the sparse pedestrian traffic of a late weekday evening, scanning the salon window again automatically.

This time he did a double take. Their Number was gone.

Reese flicked on his earpiece and veered slightly, redirecting his path toward the salon. "Finch. Shelly—Jun—just vanished. I'm going in after her." Despite the desperate situation, Reese felt a welcome spike of adrenaline at the possibility of action.

"Wait, Mr. Reese, not yet!" Finch said hurriedly. "She's fine—for the moment. She's in the office with Mr. Lee. He's asking her about her encounter with you this afternoon. I'll let you know if she needs help."

Reese let out a breath of relief. Although it made him uneasy to have their Number out of his sight, he knew that Finch was right. Any wrong move could harm rather than help her. "The second anything changes . . ."

"I'll let you know," Finch assured him.

Reluctantly, Reese turned back toward the white van, approaching it on the driver's side. Just as he passed the rear of the vehicle, he paused suddenly to stoop down, as if he had dropped something. Then he proceeded on his way, having attached the tracking device, attracting no more than a bored glance from the truck's driver.

"Bad news," Finch's voice buzzed in his ear, speaking rapidly. "Mr. Lee just took away Shelly's panic button."

"Has he figured out what it is?"

"Not yet." Briefly, Finch recounted Shelly's interrogation by Mr. Lee.

Reese swore under his breath."If I hadn't stepped in to help her, he wouldn't be suspicious. I should have made sure the two guys who attacked her would keep quiet," he concluded darkly.

"You did the right thing, Mr. Reese," Finch soothed him. "There's no way we could have anticipated the lengths to which Mr. Lee would go to silence our number. Which makes me wonder all the more why he's so invested in making sure she keeps quiet." He cleared his throat slightly. "And although I appreciate your hindsight with regard to Mr. Lee's thugs . . . I do prefer that you refrain from leaving a trail of corpses, except when _absolutely_ necessary."

"Easy for you to say," Reese grumbled. "So are we sticking with the plan, or do you want me to extract her now?"

"As little as I like leaving our number in the hands of Mr. Lee, I suspect that we have a better chance of learning what he's up to if we do," said Finch.

"Then I won't take my eyes off that van," Reese responded grimly.

A little while later two bright spots, one tracking the van and the other showing Reese's location, were moving across Finch's screen. His eyes followed them as if his vigilance could contribute to their Number's safety. He was so focused on the movement of the dots that it wasn't until half an hour into the van's journey that he noticed where they were headed. What he saw perplexed him.

"Mr. Reese . . . you _are_ still following the van with our Number in it, I presume?"

"That's right, Finch. This route look familiar to you, too?"

"Disturbingly familiar. Do you think it's only a coincidence, or . . .?"

"We'll find out when we get there, won't we?"

So when both dots finally came to a stop and Reese announced, "This is the place," Finch zoomed in for a street view, baffled by where they had arrived. "Mr. Reese, did you, in fact, just follow the van to . . .?"

"Mr. Lee's house," Reese confirmed. He concealed his motorcycle behind a hedge a little ways from the house, then pressed himself into the shadows and glided noiselessly along the fence toward the gate.

"But why would he bring them . . .?"

"Whatever it is, it can't be good," murmured Reese, crouching down as he neared the van, scanning the landscape, noting the positions of the guards and taking inventory of their weapons. While he was grateful for the cover of darkness, he was glad he'd initially scoped the place out in daylight.

Finch's mind, meanwhile, was racing to put together the pieces. "Curiouser and curiouser," he murmured. "What _could_ our Mr. Lee be up to? With all of those undocumented women involved, I don't like to contemplate the possibilities."

"Neither do I," said Reese, "but with a little luck, I'll find out soon. And then we'll get them out of here." He had begun moving toward the van, which was still stopped at the entry gate.

"'Them'?" echoed Finch, as the plurality of the pronoun dawned on him. "Mr. Reese," he blurted, "I'm not so sure this is a good idea—please do be careful."

"Of course, Finch. You know me," Reese purred.

"Exactly," Finch replied grimly, and Reese returned an unseen smile.

As he neared the gate, Reese could hear the driver chatting with the guard, their conversation punctuated with laughter; he saw his opportunity. Silently, he approached the rear of the vehicle from the passenger side. This time, he appreciated the lack of windows on the van's rear compartment, since it meant less risk that he would be spotted by its occupants. Planting one foot on the rear fender, he pushed himself up to reach the roof rack and gripped it with his right hand, keeping the other near his weapon in case of trouble. Within a minute, the van began to move forward again, and he balanced his right foot on the wheel well and flattened his body against the side of the vehicle. Then the gate slid shut with a hum of motorized rollers and closed behind them with a dull clang.

Nobody raised the alarm; Reeese hadn't been noticed. Now for step two of the operation. From his precarious vantage point, Reese studied the exterior of the house, searching for spots that might enable a break-in. The word "house" hardly did it justice, though. It was a mansion—a new construction with peaked roofs of varying heights, its lighted windows illumined with an artfully golden glow, and meticulous landscaping fringing its edges. Under his breath, he confided to Finch, "The bathrooms in this place are probably bigger than my apartment."

"Your guess is not far wrong, Mr. Reese," Finch said. On his screen, he had pulled up the real estate listing from before Mr. Lee purchased the estate. "The question is, how does he afford it? The property values in that neighborhood are nothing short of stratospheric."

"He's getting plenty of money from somewhere. Too bad he doesn't share it with his workers."

The van had been approaching the mansion on the left arc of a circular driveway, where floodlights shone up from the border of the flowerbeds around the front of the house. There were large windows along the front of the house, but Reese hoped that the combined glare of the lights outside and the lights indoors would conceal him from the house's occupants.

A moment later, the vehicle lurched, and Reese tightened his grip as it turned onto onto a gravel access road that ran along the side of the house. Still no alarm, and now they were out of sight of the front windows. Better yet, the rear of the house appeared to have fewer lights and deeper shadows.

Reese permitted himself a slight smile; it was the perfect spot for a little breaking-and-entering.


	10. Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

At the other end of the line, Finch was plunging deeper into his own part of the investigation, mulling over the knowns and unknowns of the case as he clicked through the relevant images on his screen. "Undocumented workers. Ruthless henchmen. Nail salons?" He shook his head, baffled, unable to make sense of the scattered pieces. "What . . . are . . . we . . . missing?"

"I think we'll have our answer soon," Reese murmured in Finch's ear. "The van's about to stop." The vehicle was slowing as it approached the left rear corner of the residence, and Reese heard the clatter of movement and the buzz of quiet exchanges from the rear compartment, as if the women were getting ready to disembark.

Just before they rounded the corner, Reese detached himself from the side of the vehicle and landed as gracefully as a cat on a strip of lawn that ran alongside the house. He dove into the shadows, then stayed low as he moved behind a screen of shrubs and flowering plants until he could get a good view of the action behind the house.

"What's happening?" Finch's voice came out of nowhere. He sounded tense.

"The women are getting out behind Mr. Lee's house, including our Number," Reese reported. "A couple of guards are letting them in—there's a steel door, probably leads to a basement. I'll try to get inside once the van clears out. Just need to take out a couple of guards."

That was going to be more interesting than Reese made it sound. A bright three-way floodlight beamed out from above the door where the women were entering, and two armed guards flanked it. Although they held rifles and carried a brace of other weapons on their utility belts, they were dressed in plain clothes. Henchmen, Reese decided, not formal security; depending on their training, that could make them either more or less dangerous. Either way, a rifle could only be used as a club at such close quarters, and Reese could easily close the fifteen feet between them before they could access their other weapons.

Reese studied his path to the door. To his annoyance, the lush plant growth ended at the corner of the house where he was hiding, giving way to a border of low-growing ground cover that offered no cover. Of course, Mr. Lee might just be a cheapskate when it came to landscaping, but it seemed much more likely that he didn't want people sneaking up behind him.

After the van drives away with the sound of shifting gears and a diesel-engine hum, a silence follows in which Finch forms an image of Reese's movements in his mind's eye: crouched low, focused on his prey, a coiled spring of concentrated energy. Then, launching himself from the shadows to attack. Even after working with the Reese for over a year, Finch is still amazed at how quickly the tall man can move when he wants to—and by how anxious he still feels for his friend's safety with each new mission.

Which is why Finch's heart seems to stop for a moment when he hears the sound of one blow followed by another, then a muffled squawk of protest before a grunt and a third, harder impact. Then the reassuring sound of Reese's voice, his breathing slightly quicker. "Took care of the two guards. Now let's see what Mr. Lee is up to."

"Good luck, Mr. Reese," Finch responds automatically.

Reese knocks out the light on the side nearest himself to provide some shadow, then waits beside the door, his gun ready, waiting for whoever might have heard him disposing of the guards. Nothing. He tries the doorknob, then back his hand as if it is red-hot. The door is unlocked. Someone's been expecting him.

Reese's head whips around to survey his surroundings just as he hears the sound of running feet crunching on the gravel drive. Several armed men appear from around the corner where Reese had been hiding; one raises a rifle and aims. Even as the man's superior is shouting reprimands and swatting the weapon down, Reese opens the door at the last second and uses it as a shield while he picks off the man with a single shot. Having deduced that they've been ordered to bring him in alive, he fires off two more warning shots, trying to make clear that he doesn't have the same orders. They hang back, but Reese can hear the chatter of two-way radios.

At the sound, Finch's voice squawks in his ear: "Mr. Reese! Are you alright? I heard gunfire!"

"Not now, Finch," Reese says under his breath, "I'm kind of _busy_." Through the open doorway, he hears the thunder of more booted feet pounding up the stairs. His heart seems to drop into the pit of his stomach as he scans the area, assessing his options for escape; none of them are promising. He decides to hold his ground.

Silently, he counts in his head, timing his next move, waiting. Then, as the group of armed men bursts through the doorway, Reese falls back a few steps from his shelter behind the door, and fires into the crowd until his gun is empty. He takes down a few, but then the rest are on him in a rush, with both groups closing in now, cornering him beside the doorway.

As the crowd surrounds him with angry shouts, wielding nightsticks and rifle butts, Reese kicks and punches and blocks, disabling as many as he can before they take him down. Despite the chaos, he feels a preternatural calm. Every action becomes instinct, a choreography of moves that has become second nature. He feels nothing.

Finch, on the other hand, is in a panic at what he hears: voices shouting in Korean, the dull smack of knuckles and rubber against flesh, the crack of bone against bone, the cries and grunts as blows connect. "Mr. Reese! What's happening?" he pleads.

Finch's voice again—a mosquito buzzing in his ear. "Not . . . now," Reese growls, knocking one surprised attacker into another with a hard jab. The crush of men is pressing him toward the doorway; perhaps his exit strategy will turn out to be an entrance strategy as well.

Then, abruptly, Finch hears an ugly crunch too close at hand, followed by a grunt; static blurs the sounds of the invisible melee. "Mr. Reese?! Are you alright?"

So far, Reese has felt little pain in the adrenaline rush of the fight, despite the hits he has taken. But this time, a rifle butt connects with his head hard enough to make his vision swim, and he feels a trickle of warm blood start down the back of his neck. A grim determination settles over him. Despite his best efforts, his opponents have the advantage of numbers, and he's not sure how much longer he can fend them off.

A fist slips past his defenses and connects with his mouth, driving him a step backwards into the open doorway. As Reese kicks the assailant in the middle, his peripheral vision catches another rifle butt flying towards his head, and he blocks the descending blow with his left arm.

Damn. His injured arm. The impact delivers a shocking jolt of pain, and fresh blood from the cut begins to soak his sleeve above the wound. That doesn't stop him, though, from grabbing hold of the rifle and swinging its barrel with a satisfying crack against the head of his attacker before another one snatches it away.

Bleeding, bruised, exhausted but still on his feet, Reese calculates that maybe—just maybe—he has a chance if he can get inside and pull the door shut. But as he dives for the handle, something slams into his right shoulder from behind like a blast of thunder and lightning combined. Before he can recover, a second blow blinds him with a white flash of pain.

He stumbles, and his next step meets only air. He is falling: the world is inverted, the air knocked from his lungs, his body thudding helplessly down a cascade of concrete. Through a haze of confusion and pain, he recognizes a voice in his ear.

"Mr. Reese! What's happening? Are you alright?" Finch has heard the whole battle through Reese's ears. Even as he hopes, wills—perhaps even prays— that Reese will recover his feet in time, the noise of triumphant shouts near at hand confirm the worst.

Reese's voice, gasping. "Finch. Need backup. Tell Car—. . ." But a breathy sound of pain cuts off his words, as if he's been kicked in the stomach. Then a cacophony of kicks and blows follows, nearly drowning out his gasps and groans.

Finch cringes, feeling like a fly on the wall of the Hindenburg. "John, hold on! I'll send help!" Rising from his chair, he stands with both hands on his desk, poised for action yet powerless to intervene.

Instead of a reply, Finch hears only an ear-splitting crunch followed by the crackle of static. He staggers back a step, realizing with horror that Reese's earpiece has been damaged. Something has gone terribly wrong. "Mr. Reese, can you hear me?" Finch pleads, touching his own ear as if he might somehow reach his friend. "John, are you there?" Then the connection goes dead.


	11. Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

Reese's awareness returns slowly. The first thing he knows is that he is in pain—but that rarely surprises him anymore. The next thing he notices is that he is cold, cold enough that he is shivering slightly. It doesn't help that his captors have relieved him of his shirt and jacket, leaving his torso exposed to the damp chill. Achingly, his eyes open to the glare of a bare bulb. The light is coming from somewhere behind him, dimly revealing a stained cinderblock wall only inches from his face—the wall of a basement, probably. He sucks in a deeper breath experimentally, but his ribs expand with a pain that is even more stifling than the stale air that fills his lungs.

Right. It's all coming back to him now. The rifle butt striking him from behind with the velocity of a home-run baseball bat before he can close the door, propelling him headlong down the stairs and into a crash-landing at the bottom. Then, before he can figure out which way is up, a whole gang of them are on him, shouting, their boots crunching into his ribs as he curls up against the blows.

When he tries to raise his hands in surrender, the gesture comes too late. A rifle butt smashes into the side of his head, slamming it against the floor and leaving him stunned and semi-conscious. Rough hands flip him face-down on the cold concrete and jerk his arms up behind him, cinching them into handcuffs behind his back. After that, the beating resumes briefly, but he is only half-aware of the fists and feet that hammer his body until he no longer resists and the scene fades from view.

Blood has run down into his eye from a cut where his forehead hit the ground. He would touch his face to assess the damage, but Reese finds that he can't move his arms. This leads him to the realization that they are stretched up on either side of his head and handcuffed high above it. Reese sighs with the heartfelt conviction of a man who knows from experience that waking up in restraints is never a good sign—especially in the hands of men who enjoy bashing people in the head with rifle butts.

Speaking of his head, it currently seems to be the stage for an enthusiastic but tuneless drum solo. A teeth-rattling bass pounds through his skull, making the backs of his eyes ache. Cymbal clashes of sharper pain announce a significant gash on the side of his head where the same blow crushed his earbud. His right ear is still ringing from the blow. He hopes he won't have to pick tiny bits of electronic shrapnel out of his ear canal later.

At least now that he's conscious, he can get his feet under him, and that helps to relieve the some of the strain on his arms and shoulders. His right shoulder, especially, is throbbing from the blows that pitched him down the stairs, and keeping it raised above his head is a special kind of hell.

Straightening his knees brings another unpleasant revelation, however. As he does so, he hears the clank of metal at his ankles and finds that he can't shift his legs from their shoulder-width spread. His body has been stretched out on some sort of vertical frame so that his limbs forms an X, preventing him from using any part of his body to free another. Clearly his captors have thought ahead. Impressive, he has to admit—not to mention the effort it must have taken to rig up a man of his size like this while he was still unconscious.

 _Nothing like teamwork_ , Reese thinks wryly. This attempt at gallows humor can't distract him, though, from the evidence that Mr. Lee and his gang have plenty of experience in dealing with people who cause them problems. He clearly isn't the first cowboy at this rodeo. But perhaps worse, a small voice at the back of his head reminds him that he's the _only_ cowboy at this rodeo, to strangely extend the metaphor, cut off from any contact Finch and his other . . . well, friends, he supposes. He's on his own again. Not long ago, he recalls, he liked things better that way. But now . . .

Dodging a maze of conflicting emotions, Reese returns to the more immediate problem of finding a way out of this mess. As he takes in his surroundings, he notices a sharp chemical odor stinging the back of his nose. There's something strangely familiar about it. A chemical weapon, perhaps, or maybe . . . a nail salon. Something clicks in his mind regarding a possible link between Mr. Lee's public and private businesses, but before he can think it through, an ominous sound breaks the silence. Voices. Men's voices.

A fist seems to clench around his stomach. Reese tries to distract himself from what will happen next, instead visualizing various scenarios that might play out and how he might use each to his advantage. None of them are good. All of them hurt. Almost as an afterthought on this note, he allows himself a low groan before he has an audience that will appreciate it.

Only seconds later, fluorescent tubes flicker to life on the ceiling above; the audience has arrived. Reese raises his head gingerly to study his captors, moving slowly to keep the room from swimming. Mr. Lee stands at the front of a small crowd of henchmen, openly gloating over his prize. It's the happiest Reese has every seen him, ironically. Among those gathered, Reese also recognizes the two men who attacked Shelly, as well as a few newly bandaged specimens. They recognize him, too, and they're not happy. This should be fun.

Off to one side, Reese sees a particularly heavyset member of the gang begins rolling up his sleeves and flexing his arms. As he shifts his eyes away from this unpromising sight, he notices several long, straight sticks leaning against the wall beside the man. Each one is about the length of a broom handle and as thick as a man's index finger; several inches at one end of each is wrapped in heavy tape to form a grip. Reese closes his eyes, and lets out an almost inaudible sigh. Tonight is shaping up to be even worse than he expected.

"So, the mysterious man has finally shown his face!" Mr. Lee declares, strolling over to Reese with folded arms. "At last we are able to have a proper conversation."

"This is your idea of a proper conversation?" Reese says dourly, raising a gashed eyebrow.

Mr. Lee laughs. "Yes, I suppose it is, when I am speaking with someone who is threatening my business."

"This isn't 'business'—it's slavery," Reese growls. "Exploiting women who have no one to turn to, who are just trying to survive—"

A fist slams into his kidneys, and Reese grunts, buckling slightly at the middle—his bonds won't allow anything more. Still, he holds his head steady. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the big man with the rolled-up sleeves grinning while his compatriots snicker.

"Be careful, Seung-hyun," Mr. Lee says, "we still have many question for our guest. We do not want him to lose consciousness too soon. So, then, let us begin." He claps his hands briskly as if announcing the start of a party game. "We begin with easy question. First, what do we call you?"

Reese remains staunchly silent, his breathing still quickened as the shock of the blow reverberates through his insides. At the next blow, his eyes go dull and distant, a sign that his mind is escaping to another place. The problem is, he knows that this is only a temporary solution. A third blow slams into his lower back, as if to remind him of that fact. In the end there is no way to separate the mind from the body; when it's all over, both will have to deal with the aftermath of this experience. Worse yet, if the pain becomes too intense, his body's clamoring will pull his mind back sooner than he chooses. As Reese knows all too well, that's when the real torture begins.

Mr. Lee's voice breaks into his thoughts. "Oh, come now," he chides, "you do not have to make things so difficult. It is only a simple question. What. Is. Your. Name?"

No response. Yet another blow to the kidneys, this one even harder than before. Then another. Reese groans, his head drooping against his chest as his knees waver.

"Ah, I see you are going to be stubborn—as I expect," Mr. Lee says, shaking a finger at him. "So, we do not waste time with small question. But we must have something to call you," he muses. "Ah! Robin Hood, like in the story. We call you 'Robin Hood,' because you wish to rescue poor lady from evil rich man, yes?"

The henchmen laugh heartily as if they actually know who Robin Hood is, which Reese doubts. Still, he tips his head in mute concession. He's been called worse things. And he's honestly somewhat surprised to find that Mr. Lee has a sense of humor, even if it's a twisted one.

"Robin Hood it is, then." A significant pause, then the owner addresses Reese, this time with a dangerous note tainting the tolerant amusement in his voice. "Have you heard of the _rotan_ , Mr. Robin Hood?"

For a moment, Reese stares straight ahead, unblinking. Then he closes his eyes for a moment before offering a terse nod in reply.

Reese is indeed familiar with the _rotan_ , the rattan whipping cane of Southeast Asia. Although he has endured more than his fair share of beatings, so far he has been lucky enough to avoid this particular implement. But he has witnessed the scars it has left on the bodies and minds of men who have not been so fortunate.

With each blow, the full length of the cane will strike with bruising force, battering the victim's flesh to a pulp. Then, as the arc of the stroke continues, the tip of the cane will tear open the damaged flesh—in this case, Reese notes matter-of-factly, his own—leaving behind a long gash. The pain is said to be horrific.

"Excellent," says Mr. Lee cheerily. "Then I do not need to explain how much suffering waits for you if you do not tell me what I ask." In case Reese had any doubts, the heavyset man who has been readying himself picks up one of the sticks leaning against the wall and lashes the air with it. Its crack rings out startlingly loud—worthy of a bullwhip.

Reese swallows. He's not looking forward to this. But since rescue seems unlikely at this point, he'll face the ordeal as he usually does: with a stoicism born of years of grueling training, the assurance of how much he has already made it through, and the certainty that his mission is worth any sacrifice he must give.

"So, Mr. Robin Hood," Mr. Lee continues coaxingly, " what I would really most like to know is, who has sent you to disrupt my business? The Russians? The Italians? A simple question: who do you work for?" He pauses, waiting for an answer.

Reese turns a stony glare on him. "I don't even know what your business _is_."

Mr. Lee only laughs. "Come now, we are not playing games, Mr. Robin Hood. You may choose not to answer my question, but you will pay the price."

Reese hears the edge in his captor's voice, and knows that this is not an empty threat. Still, he remains silent in the face of this warning, closing his eyes with an almost meditative air. Then he opens them again, bracing himself for what he knows will follow. Then it comes. A sharply spoken order, followed swiftly by its execution: two steps back to build momentum, then a rush forward; the heavy swish of the cane as it whips through the air; then, its brutal collision with his body.

At first, the blow registers more in his lungs and his teeth than in his back, a shockwave that knocks the wind out of him and sends a resounding electrical impulse shooting through his jaw. Just as the cut begins to the burn, a line of live flame across his shoulders, the next stroke falls.

This time, a searing pain tears through his torso; it feels like the cane has cut straight through his body. He sucks in a shuddering breath through his nose, but permits himself no other reaction. A third blow falls, then a fourth; he grits his teeth hard against the pain. A fifth lash. He must not cry out. Not yet.

A pause of a minute or so follows—not long enough for Reese to collect himself fully, but enough to let him regain some control of his ragged breathing. He forces himself to inhale deeply even though each expansion of his chest sends agony flaring through his wounds.

Then, somewhere in the near distance, he hears Mr. Lee repeat his question and his threats. Reese ignores the cold feeling of dread that seizes his stomach. Instead, he sets his jaw, stares straight ahead, and readies himself to ride out the next round of blows.


	12. Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

By the time Finch reaches Detective Carter, he is feeling desperate. He tried Detective Fusco first, knowing that Carter wasn't on duty tonight. After multiple attempts—and too much precious time wasted—Finch finally reached him, only to be told in no uncertain terms that Wonderboy can take care of his own sorry ass because Fusco is at the scene of a homicide and will not be able to extract himself anytime soon. Assuming, of course, that he would have wanted to ruin his evening in the _first_ place.

Finch hurries to dial Carter's number, but he is routed directly to voicemail. When he multiple calls produce the same result, he has to conclude that her phone is turned off. As the minutes tick by with no word from Reese, Finch decides to remotely turn it on, then makes it ring until she eventually answers, obviously exasperated.

"Finch, _what_ are you doing? You _do_ know that this is my night off, don't you? And that I have a son who needs my attention, too? I can't just come running every time you call. Taylor and I are having a family night, and we're in the middle of dinner."

"Believe me, I wouldn't bother you, except that our mutual friend needs your help." Finch's voice is quavering with emotion.

Carter sighs. "What's the problem this time?"

"I lost communication with him more than an hour ago. There were . . . sounds of violence. I'm afraid he may be in grave danger, if not already dead."

"Finch," Carter ventures, "you _do_ remember that John is former spec ops and ex-CIA, and that he can usually take care of himself just fine?"

There's no way to spare himself reporting the details; Finch takes a deep breath. "Last I heard from him . . . he was being attacked . . . by a group of men. Then—his earbud was crushed. I haven't heard from him since."

If you could hear the blood draining from someone's face, Finch suspects that it would sound like the silence that follows as Carter takes in this news.

When she speaks again, her voice has a hard edge to it. "Where was John when you last talked to him? I'm going there right now."

A weight seems to lift from Finch's heart as he recites the address; he's finally doing something that might help his friend.

"Got it," says Carter. "And can you give me some idea of what was John looking into?"

Finch offers a brief recap of Shelly's situation, and explains, "Her employer is a Korean man who runs several nail salons—but we suspect that he's involved in some sort illegal enterprise as well."

"Any idea what sort of 'illegal enterprise' this is, exactly? Suspicion may be enough for you boys, but it's not gonna fly with my department."

"That's what John was trying to find out. We were waiting to come to you until we had some hard evidence, but then . . . this happened," Finch apologizes meekly.

He hears the sound of Carter's key turning in the ignition along with her impatient response. "Well, if you had _bothered_ to share that information with me sooner, I might have been able to help you out."

"How's that, Detective?" The cold fear begins to encase Finch's heart again.

"Well, I just happen to know through the grapevine that there's an Asian gang somehow involved in the manufacture of explosives. They've been supplying several other criminal organizations in the city. We haven't been able to pin down who was running the show. Something tells me that it might be your man."

Everything is finally coming together. Finch's mind races to connect the dots: the chemicals used in the salons; the undocumented workers; Mr. Lee's endless "delivery" transactions on the phone. "I think, Detective," he says, "that you may well find the ringleader at the same place that you'll find John."

"Then I'd better hurry," Carter says grimly. "Because his gang isn't known for playing nice with people who cross 'em." And with a screech of tires, she is on her way.


	13. Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

The lashes break against Reese's body like crashing waves, drowning him deeper and deeper in a bottomless abyss of pain. He can feel the blood streaming from his wounds, his spine collecting it like a channel. His breath is coming hard now, bursting out with each blow. No matter how hard he fights the urge to cry out, he knows he won't be able to keep quiet for much longer.

Indeed, Mr. Lee seems to sense this, too; he smiles and barks instructions at his henchman. Reese can tell that the next few blows are carefully aimed, cutting him where the cane has already left its bloody marks, causing pain so intense that his body arches away against his will; at last he lets out a choked cry.

Satisfied for the moment, Mr. Lee signals for a pause. Then he laces his hands calmly behind his back and strolls over to study his prisoner.

Sweat is pouring down Reese's face, running into his eyes, mixing with streaks of half-dried blood. Unsteadily, he raises his chin and glares at his captor, his expression dark and contemptuous even through the pain.

Mr. Lee, undaunted, leans close and speaks softly in his ear. "You are indeed a brave man, Mr. Robin Hood, and a strong one. By this time, most man cannot stop their screaming."

As Mr. Lee speaks, he runs a finger down Reese's bicep, and Reese shudders reflexively. The pain of that slight movement sets off a chain reaction: Reese catches his breath, his chest expands, and flaming knives seem to race through the rifts in his shoulders and back. He can't hold back the groan that rises from deep in his chest.

Seeing the prisoner's contorted face, his tormentor smiles wider, wagging a finger. "But even _you_ are only a man, Mr. Robin Hood, and no man can hold out against the _rotan_ forever."

Reese's eyes spark with anger. "I'll die . . . before . . . I talk."

Mr. Lee steps back and replies with a casual shrug, "Perhaps you will. But perhaps"—he smiles in a way that Reese knows can't bode well—"someone else will talk first." He turns and barks an order toward the open doorway.

Reese hears the sounds of a struggle, and of a woman's pleas and protests. He closes his eyes, feeling a hollow sickness in the pit of his stomach. Two of Mr. Lee's henchmen enter the room, dragging the reluctant Jun between them, confirming Reese's fears. Although he cannot understand the question that the bemused Mr. Lee asks her in Chinese, he comprehends perfectly well the cry of distress she lets out at the sight of him.

Mr. Lee gestures toward Reese, speaking in English this time. "So, this man—he is man who rescue you?"

"Yes," she weeps, "but I do not know him. Please, let him go. He only help me because he see I was in trouble. He know nothing."

Mr. Lee arches an eyebrow. "Why would he help you if he knows nothing? You lying. Either he is you lover, or he is police!"

"No," Jun sobs out her protest, "no, I do not know him. I only meet him yesterday, I swear."

Mr. Lee nods to the man with the cane, who resumes his task with gusto.

"No!" Jun pleads, "no, please! Please stop!" But she can only watch in horror as the bloody stripes begin to blur together on her would-be rescuer's back, his body convulsing with each blow.

Although Reese suppresses his cries for as long as he can, limiting himself to gasps and groans, he recognizes at once that Mr. Lee has carefully calculated the moment of Jun's arrival. Reese hates him for it. Soon enough, the agony sends his muscles into spasms, and he begins to scream uncontrollably. Somewhere in the distance he hears Jun sobbing, but he can't stop himself.

An eternally long minute passes before Mr. Lee halts his henchman, and lets the prisoner hang limp and moaning. "Now tell me who this man is," Mr. Lee demands of the young woman, pointing at Reese's ragged shoulders, "or I will beat him to _death_!"

"Please, I never see him before yesterday, I swear!" Jun pleads, terrified, falling to her knees. "Please—please do not hurt him!"

To everyone's surprise, the tortured man speaks, and everyone turns to look at him. His voice is choked with anguish, but assured. "It's true. . . . We'd never met. I just knew . . . she was in danger." Reese's head sags, and another low groan escapes him.

"And how did you know that?" Mr. Lee demands skeptically.

Reese croaks, "It's . . . complicated."

For a long moment, Mr. Lee looks from Reese to Jun, then back again, studying them carefully. Then he makes his decision. "Put her back with the women. She knows nothing more, as she has said. I will deal with her later." Turning toward Reese, he smirks. "But as for Mr. Robin Hood here, I think he still has much to explain to us."

Mr. Lee calls to a short, stocky man with his arm in a sling. Jun immediately recognizes him as one of her attackers from that afternoon, and she feels lightheaded with horror. "Ha-joon, perhaps you would be willing to offer our friend some . . . encouragement."

The short man offers a stiff, formal bow. "Sir, it would be my pleasure." But there is nothing formal about the leer on his face as he draws the long knife from his ankle sheath and approaches the prisoner.

"No," Jun begs in a whisper, as two henchmen drag her from the room. "No." Her voice wavers. There is nothing she can do.

Thankfully, she is out of sight before Ha-joon puts his knife to use, but she can hear all too well what follows. A low buzz of gleeful goading rising from the other henchmen; the prisoner's reluctant, choked sounds of pain; the crowd's eager response growing louder and louder along with the prisoner's ragged cries, until he lets out a scream of anguish.

Then suddenly, a terrifying silence. Jun stumbles back into the women's dormitory room, too numb to cry. She does not know whether the tall man is dead or alive; she hopes with all her heart that he still lives. But she knows for certain that both of them will be dead soon if she doesn't do something to change their fate.


	14. Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

Jun sits on the edge of her metal bunk while the other women who share the cramped, one-room dormitory cluster around, all talking at once, bombarding her with alternately curious and anxious questions.

"You are alive! Are you hurt?"

"What is happening? Who is screaming?"

"Do you know him? Is he your lover?"

"Those terrible sounds! I am frightened."

"Is he from the police? Did you tell them about Mr. Lee?"

"Does he know about the bombs?"

"Are they angry with us? Are we in trouble?"

Throughout the evening, the women had been unusually quiet after the violent commotion in the hallway had shattered their comfortable nightly rituals, a mood that had only darkened as the terrible and too-familiar sounds of torture followed. Then when the guards burst awhile later and demanded that Jun come with them, all of their worst forebodings had seemed to come true, and they had hardly dared to speak even in whispers.

Now that she has safely returned to them, the other women seem to regard this as something between an epiphany and a miracle. But as Jun looks around at the faces her fellow prisoners, she is equally as surprised by what she sees there. Somehow, amid the weariness, terror, and indignation, there is a new spark of resistance—the same spark of strength and purpose that has been kindled inside her by the tall man's kindness. For the first time, she sees them not merely as fellow victims and captives, but as the capable mothers, sisters, and daughters that they are. She seems women who are tired of being pushed around and treated as property.

That's when she knows what they must do. True, she cannot free the tall man on her own; one woman is helpless against a dozen armed men. But perhaps a dozen women, working together, can find some way to help her friend, and maybe change their own lot as well.

"Sisters," she declares, trying to make herself heard over the barrage of questions, "you have heard the terrible suffering of this man that Mr. Lee has captured. I have met this man." Murmurs of surprise break out around the room. "He is a good man, a brave man, who tried to help me today, to protect me from Mr. Lee's threats. He wants our freedom. But now, sisters, he needs our help; he has fallen into the hands of our cruel and greedy employer."

Nods and mutterings of agreement follow, and Jun seizes this moment of unity to rally the women. "We cannot let him die, sisters. There are many of us, and together we can save him. Together we can gain his freedom—and ours!"

The murmuring stops abruptly. Jun's fellow workers have frozen in the midst of their chattering, stunned by this audacious proposal. They have never before considered the strength of their numbers. But as they see the light in her eyes and know it as the same one that it glows their own hearts as well, her admonition begins to make a strange sort of sense.

"But what can we do, older sister?" asks a girl who is hardly more than a teenager, hugging herself and crossing her pink-slippered feet nervously. "The men have weapons. They will kill us."

"She is right, younger sister," adds a middle-aged woman who has only half finished putting her hair into rollers. "We are many, but how would we fight them?"

A smile spreads across Jun's face. "Think, sisters, of the work Mr. Lee hides here in this basement. He himself has put in our hands all the weapons we need!"

After a pause, realization begins to dawn on the faces around her—and mischievous smiles and even giggles follow. There _is_ something fitting about turning the tables on Mr. Lee and using the explosives he illegally produces against him.

The aging Anna, the woman Finch and Reese both met at the reception counter, fairly crows with delight. "Yes, yes! The bombs. We have plenty of bombs!"

"But the bombs are dangerous!" someone protests.

"Of course, but they are dangerous for Mr. Lee, too!" another woman points out, and excited agreement follows.

"How would we get out? The door is locked!" someone asks.

For a moment, that problem quells the group's enthusiasm. Then Anna, with a twinkle in her eye, claps one hand dramatically to her chest and declares, "I will have a heart attack, and you will call for help! You will tell them I am _dying_!" She grimaces and gasps and staggers as the others stare in astonishment. "I always wanted to be actress," she says, breaking into a grin. "So, why are we wasting time? We must save your friend!"

* * *

Reese returns to consciousness more quickly than he would have liked, waking to the sting of the cane snapping against his cheek. He had been half-dreaming, half-hallucinating a rescue scene worthy of a TV crime drama: a fully-equipped SWAT Team bursting into the room, armored and armed to the teeth, forcing Mr. Lee and his henchmen to the ground. And then, to make the scene perfect, Carter following in their wake, desperate to find him, elated to see that she hasn't come too late.

But then the cane snaps again, hard enough that he winces and reluctantly opens his eyes. Nearby, several voices laugh, and a voice announces, "Sir, the prisoner—he wake!"

Weakly, Reese turns his head to look over his shoulder. Of course, there is no SWAT Team. No Carter. Only a nauseating close-up of his newly butchered left forearm, a gory mess where Ha-joon has cut away the bandage—along with a swath of skin. Then, a wavering image of Mr. Lee stalking back into the room, his enjoyment of his captive's suffering tinged with growing impatience. Reese is happy to be frustrating the man, at least.

"Ah, Mr. Robin Hood, I see that you have decided to join us again. Perhaps you're ready for a chat now, after your little nap? We do not have all night, you know."

With his arm burning, his head spinning like a cheap amusement park ride, and his back feeling like it's been torn up with a Rototiller, Reese is in no mood for banter. He growls hoarsely, "You . . . might as well . . . give up."

There is a pause of disbelief, then Mr. Lee and his men roar with laughter. "Oh, yes," he says with mock seriousness, "of course! I see no point in questioning an injured man who is chained to the wall and at my mercy."

Reese smirks as if the joke is on them. "I'm full of . . . surprises," he manages to say. But really, he suspects that no help will arrive before Mr. Lee's patience runs out. Heck, he'd even settle for a rescue by Fusco right now. He only hopes that Finch and the others can find a way to rescue Jun before Mr. Lee takes his out frustration on her.

Strolling over, Mr. Lee tugs on one of the handcuffs biting into his captive's wrists, causing fresh blood to well up around it. Reese doesn't flinch—doesn't even blink. "Ah, so you have loosened your chains, fearless Mr. Robin Hood? Ready to break free and defeat us all? No?" He smirks as Reese's eyes grow stormy. "Then I think I am the one who decides what we will do." He stands back again, and barks out an order in Korean.

As Reese hears the _rotan_ whip through the air once more, he braces himself but with little effect; the nerves in his ravaged back seem to have become live wires. Such excruciating pain roars through his body that for a moment, he cannot breathe, cannot think, cannot even see. The sheer physical shock nearly overwhelms him.

Thankfully, the man with the cane pauses after the fifth lash, which is when Reese's legs give out. Panting with pain and fury, Reese struggles to make them support him, trying to relieve the agony of his full weight hanging from his wrists, fighting to regain some shred of dignity. But his legs won't comply. He's too spent.

"Fortunately for you, I am patient man," says Mr. Lee. At this, Reese manages a bitter snort of a laugh, which his captor ignores. "I will give you one more chance to tell me what I want to know," he continues, "before I give you the death that you deserve."

Although Reese has always expected to die violently, this end is shaping up to be even more miserable than he had imagined. But that challenge only fuels his resolve to fight to his last breath. Hearing the hungry snap of the cane in the hands of Lee's henchman, Reese groans and rolls his eyes in exhaustion.

Then, somewhere in the midst of the blinding agony, above the sound of his own ragged breathing, a familiar voice jolts him back to the basement. It's a woman's voice, but not Carter's. The pain must be making him hallucinate, because he can't possibly be hearing what he thinks he hears.

It their Number's voice, demanding, "Mr. Lee, you will let that man go— _now_!" and a large chorus of female voices backing up her demand. Blearily, he wonders whether Carter has managed to find him after all, and has spurred this revolt. That thought kindles a faint spark of hope in him, but Reese is too weak to turn his head and see whether she's there.

Snickering and the sound of knives being drawn make it obvious to Reese how Mr. Lee's men are taking this unorthodox invasion, and it seems for a moment that the whole thing will end quickly with a rout of the women. But then Mr. Lee's voice rings out above the murmurings of violence. "Wait! I want to hear what this gaggle of hens has to say."

Although Mr. Lee's voice is as mocking and imperious as ever, but Reese detects an unfamiliar note in it—could it possibly be fear? He can only hope.

Jun speaks again, her voice bold despite its slight quavering. "This gaggle of hens says you must release this man now, and do not hurt him more. And you must pay us all fairly, or we will tell the police about your bombs."

Predictably, Mr. Lee and his henchmen guffaw with laughter, but with a definite edge of nervousness this time. Reese can guess why, thanks to one word: "bombs." Apparently he was right in noting the similarity between the smells of salon chemicals and explosives, though he's annoyed at himself for not seeing the connection sooner.

"And why," Mr. Lee sneers, "should I be frightened of a little chicken who comes with her flock to peck at me?" He makes clucking noises and pretends to flap his wings, then strides forward until he is standing face to face with Jun. "I own you," he growls, "I own all of you, little hens. You have nothing without me. But if you fly back to your coop right now with no more cackling, I will not beat you too badly when I am done with this man. If you stay—then _you_ can share his fate."

Jun's heart beats faster, since she knows that Mr. Lee does not make empty threats. But she has chosen her path and won't be swayed from it. "No," she says, then louder, "NO! We will not leave. We are free women. We are not your slaves. If you do not do as we ask, we will use your own bombs to burn down your big, expensive house." She nods toward a small but powerful device that she holds in one hand and the lighter she carries in the other.

Anna, behind her, holds up a bottle of nail polish remover. She points to the warning label with a smile. "See? 'Highly flammable.' "

Mr. Lee abruptly falls silent and his men freeze in their places as they notice that each of the twenty women crowding the doorway and spilling into the room is similarly armed with explosive substances. Still, he hesitates, unwilling to bear the shame of letting this absurd army defeat him.

"And then what?" he shouts at them, gesturing broadly. "You will be criminals in this country. They will lock you up in jail. They will send you back to China."

A woman further back in the crowd speaks up. "Either way, we will be free more than when we work for you!"

Another adds, "And the food will be better!"

A refreshing burst of female laughter breaks through the tension for a moment, which only enrages Mr. Lee more. Subtly, he gestures to two of his men to break through the crowd. But even with knives drawn, they hesitate, and Jun calls out, "Now!"

The nearest women dash the contents of their bottles in the men's faces, leaving them howling and clawing at their eyes, their weapons forgotten. Their compatriots fall back in alarm. Then as Jun flicks on her lighter, Mr. Lee and some of his men duck for cover, while others make a break for the doorway, shouting in terror, pushing past the women.

Seeing that Mr. Lee has not retreated, Jun pauses, wondering whether she should light the fuse. Then she looks again at the tall man, her rescuer, his body hanging limp and torn. Her face hardens; she knows what she must do.

But before she can move, something heavy barrels into her full on, knocking her onto her back. As if in slow motion, Jun watches the device and the lighter fall from her hands toward the concrete, and she feels her hopes falling away with them.


	15. Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

Jun never sees the device hit the ground. Before Mr. Lee's hands can close around her neck, an explosion reverberates through the room. For a moment, she is too dazed too realize what has happened. Smoke and dust billow out, obscuring her view of Mr. Lee's henchmen and of her friend, and she realizes that the device she held must have gone off by itself when it fell.

Mr. Lee is still on top of her, but he is motionless now, covered with the fine white dust of shattered concrete, his body peppered with shrapnel from the blast. She struggles out from beneath him, shaken and bruised, but uninjured; ironically, Mr. Lee's intended act of violence shielded her from harm.

As the other women help her up from the floor, Jun's ears suddenly seem to open to the chaos all around—cries of alarm and surprise from the women, and Mr. Lee's henchmen howls howling and cursing. She glances behind her to find her co-workers mostly unhurt, if stunned by the force of the blast. Mr. Lee and his men have borne the brunt of the explosion since they were nearer to the device when it went off. Several of them shove past the women to escape, their clothes torn and dusty, their loyalty apparently disintegrated by the bomb. A few bolder ones rally to find a fire extinguisher, or begin beating back the flames with coats or shirts, aware of the danger of open flame in a basement full of flammable substances. Others are still finding their way up from the ground as the flames lick at their clothes.

The smoke is growing thicker, and the fire seems hungry, seeking out anything its flames can lick up. Jun's friends pull at her, insisting that they must get out now, but she resists.

"We cannot leave the tall man!" she shouts above the din, her voice hoarse from the smoke. "We must bring him, too!"

Then one of the women points past her, and Jun catches a glimpse of her friend through the smoke, flanked by a couple of the women on either side. He is barely conscious, his head lolling against his chest, his body painful to look at. But her heart swells with emotion as she realizes that her colleagues are already working to free him, and have nearly succeeded.

Despite his condition, Reese tries to cooperate with his rescuers, whoever they may be. Any attempt to raise his head only sets his senses swimming, making the bizarre scene all the more difficult to sort out. But he recognizes the eerie, orange-blue glow of a chemical fire reflecting off the walls, and the acrid smell and taste of the smoke. If the explosives don't kill them, the fumes will do the job soon.

As if in confirmation, a fit of coughing shakes him like the jaws of an attack dog until the pain nearly sends him under. They're running out of time. Reese tries to warn the women, but he can't seem to speak through the violent coughing and streaming tears.

When the last cuff is pried from his wrist, he reaches out to brace his palms against the wall for support. But his hands are useless, numb from lack of circulation, and he slumps toward the ground instead. To his surprise, two people considerably shorter than he is catch his arms to support him. "Go, get out!" he gasps fiercely, trying to shake them off. "Don't worry about me. This place is gonna blow!"

"No, I will not leave you!" Dimly, he looks up into the speaker's face, soot-smeared and sweating from the heat, and he gapes. It is their Number. She gives him a worried smile. Then with determination in her eyes, she pulls his nearest arm around her shoulders; a woman on the opposite side does the same. Reese's groans as pain tears through his shoulders, but with a surge of effort, he struggles to his feet. The women encourage him forward, supporting his weight as best they can. But after a few steps, he collapses just outside the room, taking them both down with him.

So much thick smoke has filled the hallway that even close to the floor, all three find it difficult to breathe. Jun and her friend tug at the listless body of the tall man, then exchange a hopeless glance. Even with adrenaline powering their small frames, he is too big, too heavy, for them to drag up the stairs before the fire overtakes them. What can then do?

Whether what happens next is a dream or reality, Jun isn't certain as it happens. She seems to see several of her co-workers burst through the haze on the stairs, led by Anna. Two of them help Jun and the other woman to their feet, while the rest surround the wounded man, each taking hold of an arm, seizing a belt loop, grabbing an ankle. Together they carry him face-down and spreadeagled up the smoke-choked stairs and through the hazy doorway.

A vast starry expanse of midnight sky greets them as they burst out into the open air, seemingly limitless after the stifling confines of the basement. Even though they are still hacking and wheezing from the smoke, the women begin to feel that they can truly breathe for the first time in a long while. The crisp night air feels like freedom in their lungs.

Even though Jun is still coughing from the smoke, she guides the group by gestures away from the bright lights nearest the house. There, behind a cluster of bushes past the garage, they find a soft patch of grass beneath a lowing-growing evergreen on which they lay the injured man.

Is he still breathing? Jun isn't sure, watching for the rise and fall of his chest. "Jun." A hand on her arm and the urgency in her co-worker's voice interrupts her thoughts. The women clustered behind her look frightened and uncertain. "There are fire trucks, maybe police. What should we do? What should we tell them?"

Jun pauses a moment, letting one hand rest on the tall man's arm, feeling torn between her responsibility to him and to her co-workers. Somehow she suspects that her friend cannot risk discovery any more than the rest of them. "I will talk to them," she says, "but someone must stay with him. Do not let anyone near unless they say my name."

Just then, Anna approaches, carrying a flower pot of water and a cloth, her eyes focused with concern on the wounded man. "Ah, your poor friend." Jun lets out a breath of relief; Anna is known as the unofficial nurse of their group, capably treating illnesses and minor injuries for her co-workers.

"You go ahead. I will take care of him," Anna assures her, patting her shoulder.

With a last look at the wounded man, Jun turns her mind to the next challenge, knowing that he is in capable hands.

* * *

Carter looks up at the fence surrounding Mr. Lee's estate with a critical eye. "I'm here, Finch, but it's gonna be a real job to get inside." She glances toward the guard booth by the gate; staffed by two men in uniforms, it hardly seems more promising. "There's a gate, but Mr. Lee has a couple of watchdogs that don't look like they'd be too friendly to visitors."

"Perhaps you could try to enter in an official capacity?" Finch urged. His anxiety for Reese has grown nearly unbearable as nearly two hours have passed since their last contact. "You could tell them that you were pursuing a dangerous suspect, whom you believe has entered the grounds? "

Before Carter can dismiss this suggestion, she hears sirens in the distance. They're coming closer. At almost the same moment, she detects the crisp smell of burning on the night air. Her nose wrinkles at an oddly chemical note. She can't quite place it, but her instincts tell her that it's the smell of danger.

Then the memories come flooding back, and a surge of adrenaline with them. It's the smell of war and sabotage, of singed flesh and burning cars, of the wounded screaming and mothers wailing over fallen children. Explosives. Now there's a good excuse.

Quickly, she radios for back-up, raising her voice to be heard over the wailing of sirens as fire trucks with flashing lights race down the street. Then she approaches the two surprised guards, holding her open badge. "I'm Detective Carter of the NYPD, responding to a witness's report of a fire on the property."

"Fire? There is no fire!" scoffs one guard. "What are you . . ."

"Look," Carter interrupts, pointing behind them.

Both guards turn to look with skeptical faces, then clamber to their feet in surprise. Smoke is drifting from the mansion's basement windows, which glow weirdly orange.

"Fire!" exclaims one, stating the obvious, while the other starts punching numbers into his cell phone, before realizing that multiple firetrucks are already turning down the street, sirens blaring. One of them hits the button, and the gate slides open to admit the trucks. Carter, with a secret smile, walks coolly past them, unobserved.

As soon as she's inside, though, she realizes that her victory is only half-won; she has no idea where John might be within the massive enclosure. Then she remembers the flames licking at the basement windows, and she breaks into a run toward the house. Wherever there's trouble, he's likely to be at the center of it. Already she can hear the ominous crackles and pops as the fire discovers the house's electrical system. That can't be good. Carter's heartbeat quickens with worry, and she increases her pace to match it, murmuring, "John, you'd better not still be in there, 'cause if I find out you're dead, I'm going to _kill_ you."


	16. Chapter 16

CHAPTER 16

Once again, Reese slowly returns to his senses, this time registering a series of unexpectedly pleasant impressions as he wakes. Although the night air chills his bare skin, the breeze is fresh and gentle. He smells wet earth, and knows that he is lying on the ground outdoors. The grass beneath his chest and his face is soft and damp, with the scent of rain in it. With his eyes still closed, Reese brushes his fingers over the thatch of slender leaves—alive, as he still seems to be.

But also, he observes, he is in a great deal of pain.

His head is pounding even harder than before. There seems to be blood all over him. Every nerve in his ravaged back and shoulders is shrieking that he's been skinned alive, and that doesn't seem to be far from the truth. Not surprising, really, since the last thing he remembers is being beaten more brutally than ever before in his life—and for John Reese, that's saying something.

After that, it's only a blur of shouting and smoke and coughing—then darkness, for what he thought might be the last time. Whatever happened, he's glad to be here instead of where he was before. Reese begins to draw a breath to let out a wan sigh of relief at his welcome change in circumstances.

Bad idea. It catches on the smoke trapped in his lungs and throws him into an excruciating fit of coughing, jarring his raw back and bruised ribs until the pain brings tears to his eyes. When—after an eternity—it subsides, he is shaking like a leaf and drenched with sweat, too weak to do anything besides muffle his moans in the grass.

In this moment of miserable vulnerability, Reese senses a presence beside him. A female voice murmurs something in an unfamiliar language, sounding worried. He feels a light touch on the side of his head, and tenses instinctively—as if there were anything he could do in his present condition. So he pretends to be unconscious, waiting for clues to help him to read the situation.

As his unknown companion murmurs words of concern (he understands the tone, though not the language), she gently smooths the hair away from the wound above his ear. Clucking as she surveys the damage, she reaches for something, and Reese hears the sound of a wet cloth being wrung out before she applies it to the side of his face. That's when he knows he is not in danger. For now, at least, he can relax a little and submit to the ministrations of this woman, whoever she is.

As she works, she begins to hum a simple melody that sounds to Reese like a lullaby. The calming music combined with the woman's kindness is so soothing that he wants to let down his guard down. To concede his battle against anguish and exhaustion. To let someone else be in charge for awhile.

But he fights the urge, knowing that he must stay alert; the stakes are too high. If his caregiver is a well-meaning paramedic, eventually she's sure to ask him questions he can't answer. He has to be ready to improvise a clumsy escape if the circumstances require, or he'll risk betraying his identity, and with it, the secret of Finch's Machine.

Hesitantly, Reese opens his eyes, and is relieved to find a quite ordinary, aging Asian woman kneeling beside him. She is wearing grimy flowered pajamas, not an EMT uniform, and her creased face is as soot-smeared from the smoke as he imagines his own must be. That's when he recognizes her as the woman behind the counter at the salon, and her smile tells him that she recognizes him as well.

"Ah, Mr. Tall Man, you are awake?" She seems delighted to see him conscious. "That is good!"

Reese nods once, faintly. He tries to moisten his dry lips enough to speak, and tastes a bitter cocktail of blood and smoke and powdered plaster. "What . . . happened?" he rasps.

"What happen? What _happen_?" The small woman laughs, and gesticulates broadly with her arms. " _Many_ thing happen! Evil men hurt you, but Jun make plan. I pretened to have heart attack. Escape! Fire and explode and smoke—many thing! But what happen _you_ . . ." She sighs and shakes her head. "Ah."

Reese easily reads between the lines of the protracted pause that follows. It can't be good. "My wounds—how bad are they?" he prompts, his voice weak but level. He can confidently say that it feels like every inch of his back has been pounded into raw meat, but he can't easily see the damage for himself.

The woman clicks her tongue as she surveys the wreckage, stalling, hoping that he won't press the question. But when she looks at his face again, the tall man is still calmly watching her, waiting.

Letting out a gusty sigh, she sits back on her knees. "You back . . . very bad," she says, shaking her head. A sweep of her hand encompasses his torso from shoulders to waist. "Very, very bad," she iterates. "With so big wound, is now . . . problem—" she searches for the right word. "—is danger. Danger of become sick." She puts her hand on Reese's cheek, which is already flushed with heat. "You body get very hot. Try to burn up sickness. You need doctor, and medicine to make stop."

Reese acknowledges this assessment with a slight nod, his expression hollow. He's lost a lot of blood; he can feel the dizziness and nausea of shock setting in, as well as the fever nascent in his body. He knows that he doesn't have the strength to raise himself off the ground, much less to get himself to a doctor he can trust. Not to mention having no clue how to get in touch with Finch on an unsecured phone, or any idea what to do with the crowd of rescued women, including their Number.

When the woman sees the distress on his face, her wrinkles soften; she reminds Reese of a grandmother he never knew. "Medicine also help stop pain. I know you brave man, very strong. Maybe warrior, I think. On your body, I see many scar." Gently, she touches an old bullet wound on his arm, traces a pale line hidden beneath his jaw. "You hide pain so no one see. But I see." She taps a finger beside her eyes. "I see—in you eyes. So very beautiful eyes, but so many pain." Her voice breaks a little as she cups his face in her hand, and her dark, knowing gaze meets his guarded blue one. "Even brave man should not have so many pain."

Unused to such sympathy, Reese averts his eyes, feeling self-conscious. But as he tries to swallow, he finds an unfamiliar lump in his throat. So this is what it feels like to have a stranger care about your well-being—to be on the receiving end of the equation. He is still searching for his voice when he hears footsteps approaching, and a familiar female voice hails Anna. For the second time this evening, he isn't sure whether he can believe what he hears, but he cautiously hopes that this time Carter really has come to find him.


	17. Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

Anna hurries to block the way of the newcomer, remembering Jun's instructions to keep anyone unfamiliar away from the injured man. "No, no, miss, do not come here. This place 'No Trespass.'"

"Ma'am, is your name Anna? I'm Detective Carter. Jun told me that you're taking care of my friend John here, who seems to have gotten himself into trouble again. It's a bad habit of his." Her tone is irritable with worry.

"Joss—good to see you, too." Despite Carter's grudging words, the sound of her voice fills him with inexpressible relief, but he'd rather not let her know how much he needed her. Reese feels sudden, absurd impulse to hide how badly he is hurt, even though he know that's impossible. He writes off the urge as a primitive survival instinct, though he suspects it's something more.

"John, what in heaven's name have you gone and done to yourself this time?" Carter demands, her mouth falling open in surprise as she catches glimpses of blood and bare skin through behind the bushes.

"Employment dispute," Reese offers, his voice faint. He takes a cautious breath, then clarifies, "Somebody else's employer. Not mine."

Carter rolls her eyes, cloaking her concern in exasperation. "Well, that's nice for a change. I'd hate to hear that you were having trouble with your new boss while your old one is still trying to kill you."

Reese musters a pale smile. "He'll have to wait in line. Like everyone else."

Seeing that Anna is baffled by their banter, Reese calls to her, "It's okay, Anna. Joss is a friend."

Before Anna moves aside, she briefly places her hand on Carter's arm and stands on tiptoe to whisper something in her ear. Carter's brow furrows, and she stands very still for a moment, looking ahead at the bushes that block her view of Reese's body. She nods to Anna, then moves past her to John's side, her face grave after Anna's whispered words.

"Jun gave me a few presents for . . ." Carter begins, ready to offer Reese an armload of bandages and instant ice packs and bottled water. Instead, she sucks in a sharp breath as gets a clear view of him for the first time. All of her annoyance—well, most of it, at least—evaporates in an instant. "Oh, John," she says, covering her mouth with her hand. "Oh, my God."

Reese winces. "That bad?"

The way that Carter hesitates to meet his eyes says enough. Even by John standards, this is bad. _Real_ bad. There's blood all over his face and head. Dozens of long, cruel gashes crosshatch his back and shoulders, many of them still seeping bright red. His left arm is another kind of mess altogether. Carter can't even imagine how much pain he must be in. Her throat is tight as she replies, "Worse."

Reese closes his eyes with a resigned sigh. "I thought so."

The hurt inscribed on his hard-set features sends a pang through Carter's heart, reminding her of that night when she first saw his face. She'd finally caught him—that "Man in the Suit" she'd been hunting for so long. But her victory turned out to be short-lived when she realized Snow's intentions.

Four snapshots remain in her mind like Polaroid photos from that awful night on the parking garage rooftop. First, Reese's face as he turns toward her and Snow, dark, handsome, and wary. Then, stunned with surprise and pain at the sniper's first bullet. Third, just outside the stairwell, pale and beaded with sweat as he clings to the arm of the small, bespectacled man. And finally, slumped in the back seat of the car, his deep blue eyes clouded with anguish and fixed on her face, not accusing but confused and disappointed. _Why, Carter, why? I had your back. Why didn't you trust me?_

Carter swallows back her emotions, reminding herself that this time, at least, his pain isn't her fault. She kneels down beside him, uncaps a bottle of water, and supports his head as she helps him take a few small sips. His head is hot against her hand, his hair soaked with sweat and matted with blood. A sharp pang stabs at her heart. Somehow Carter feels as if she has failed him again, even if this isn't her doing. After a long moment, she speaks, this time with a new dimension of gentleness in her voice. "John, it looks like you've had quite a night. How are you doing?"

Reese manages to hold her honest gaze for a moment before his eyes shift away. "I've been better," he says stiffly. But her question has told him that his cover is already blown; she knows him too well.

With a rueful smile, Carter shakes her head. "You can't fool me, John. I've seen you like this before."

He guessed right. She can read the tremor in his shoulders, the tight lines of his jaw, the distant, hollow look in his eyes. He's in bad shape. "Now tell me, honestly. Are you okay?"

This time, he doesn't even try to hide the truth—he's too tired to fight a friend just to preserve his ego. Reese lets his cheek rest on the grass, closing his eyes against the pain. His voice is not quite steady as he admits, "I've been . . . a lot better."

The truth is, his back is burning fiery-raw in the brisk night air, while the rest of his naked torso is numb with cold. He would ask for a shirt or a blanket, but he recoils at the thought of anything accidentally brushing against his open wounds. What little strength he has left is quickly being drained away by the effort it takes to keep himself from moaning and shifting constantly from the pain.

Just then, the breeze picks up again, sending down showers of second-hand rain from the treetops, as if to sabotage any remaining pretense of toughness he might have. Reese crumples into a ball of agony, forcing out a groan through his clenched teeth. That's when he hears Carter say his name softly, and feels her hand, strong and reassuring, on his own. "Oh, John," she sighs, somewhere between sympathy and exasperation, "I wish you would have asked me or Fusco to help you, instead of . . . instead of this."

When he has collected himself enough to look up again, Reese finds tears glistening in her eyes. He looks away suddenly, his gaze stony. He doesn't want to do this to her. He doesn't want to hurt her. He can handle any wound his enemies can inflict, even the most horrendous of tortures. What he can't bear is causing pain to the people he loves.

"I'll be okay," he lies.

Carter gives a short, sad laugh. "You just don't get it, do you?" she says. "You don't have to do this alone, John. You have friends now. Friends who care about you."

Reese blinks up at her slowly, as if he hardly dares to consider this possibility.

"Here." Instead of trying to argue the point, Carter goes around to his other side and takes his left hand in hers. He doesn't realize that he has clenched it into a hard fist until she begins gently to unfurl his fingers, one by one.

Startled by her touch, Reese feels the impulse to pull away. But he doesn't, and it's the most courageous thing he has done all night. Since beginning this job with Finch, he's had to face the hard truth that kindness and intimacy frighten him far more than any threat of pain or physical danger. But he has also begun to remember that the better side of human nature is well worth the trouble it takes to make its acquaintance.

Carter pours a little of the bottled water over the wound on his arm, then wipes away some of the half-dried blood around it with a clean piece of gauze. She can tell that it's still bleeding. "This is gonna hurt," she warns him, covering his forearm with a trauma pad.

"Already does," he assures her. Even so, when she presses down on the wound, Reese can't hold back a yelp and a grimace.

"Hey now, it's gonna be okay," Carter soothes him, a motherly impulse—before remembering that she's nursing an ex-CIA agent and former spec-ops soldier, not her little boy. She's grateful that her coloring hides the flush in her cheeks.

Even half-dead, Reese is too quick to miss such an obvious slip. Carter catches the slight smile on his lips before he manages to suppress it.

Trying to salvage her pride, she rags him, "Honestly, though, I already had my hands full before that 'Man in the Suit' started hanging around! Detective, single mother, chauffeur and cook for a teenage boy . . ."

Then she feels Reese's deep blue eyes studying her face, and a gently rasping voice interrupts, "Do you ever wish . . . you'd never met him?"

To Carter's surprise, the transparent frankness of his gaze disarms her; it conveys a sincerity she wouldn't expect in a man who keeps so many secrets. She opens her mouth, but finds she's not sure what to say. An array of scenes from her history with John Reese—some thrilling, some frightening, some maddening—flickers through her mind.

Carter looks away for minute, back toward the emergency vehicles parked alongside the house, their strobes still flashing. What captures her attention, though, is the crowd of women, newly liberated, chattering with shaky excitement as they sit on the lawn wrapped in borrowed blankets, sipping bottled water as they wait to be interviewed by the firefighters and police.

Then she looks back at John, lying there on the ground such an awful bloody mess because he tried to help them, and her heart melts. The words that she wants to say won't make it past the lump in her throat, so she gently teases, "Well, he does cause a whole heap of trouble. But after I really met him?" She smiles. "Not for a minute. Though sometimes . . ."—a brief touch on the back of his hand, a fleeting intimacy—"I do wish he'd take as good care of himself as he does everybody else."

Reese closes his eyes and the ghost of a smile flits across his lips. "Next time I see him, . . . I'll let him know."


	18. Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

Midway through the first ring, Finch sees Carter's number on the screen of his phone—at last!—and snatches it up.

"Detective? Have you found John?"

"I've found him; he's alive," Carter confirms, but her voice is grim. "He's gonna need a safe house, though, and a really good doctor."

Finch breathes out, relieved of the dreadful foreboding that has gripped him ever since the connection broke. John is alive, at least; the worst hasn't happened yet. But a hollowness grows in the pit of his stomach as Carter's words sink in. After a dry swallow, he manages to ask, "How badly is he injured?"

Another pause. Finch's heart seems to skip a beat as he waits for the news.

As Carter speaks again, there's an unfamiliar note of emotion in her voice. "Finch—I don't know how to tell you this, but . . . John's been tortured. They messed him up pretty bad. But you know John; he'll pull through, like he always does," she adds with false brightness.

 _Tortured_? _Pull through?_ Finch doesn't even know where to start with his questions, but he _does_ knows that he can't afford to waste time asking them right now. Snapping back to the present, he scans his list of emergency hideaways, and pulls up an address that is not too distant from their current location—and which he seems to remember is particularly well equipped for medical care.

"I'm sending you an address right now, detective," he says, trying to keep his tone businesslike. "I'll meet you there, and I'll find a doctor to join us as soon as possible."

The pause seems interminably long as Finch awaits Carter's confirmation. "Got it," she replies. "We'll head over there as soon as we can get John loaded up. It's kind of crazy right now with all the firetrucks and ambulances and such."

 _Firetrucks_? _Ambulances_? Finch restrains himself from prying, but only with the greatest difficulty. "Thank you, detective. I'll see you shortly."

Now for a doctor. _Torture_. The awful word echoes Finch's his mind as he tries to focus on his list of emergency medical personnel. _John's been tortured_. The very thought makes him ill. Just then, his eyes stop on the obvious choice for dealing with such a case: Dr. Madhani. He's certain to have had experience with situations like this in his home country. Finch dials him and explains the situation, feeling terrifyingly helpless as he realizes how little he knows about the details of John's condition. He's relieved, though, that for once this evening, something goes smoothly; the doctor will be available to join them within the hour.

After ending the call, Finch sets his phone down on the desk, marveling at how such a small device can convey a sense of such control and of such powerlessness in quick succession. He sweeps his hands over his face, then turns an empty gaze on the computer screen. He had thought that finding Reese would relieve his worries; instead, it has only multiplied them.

Suddenly, a strange, wet snuffling thing wedges itself under his arm, and he jumps in alarm just as it offers a sympathetic whine.

"Bear," Finch says with a shaky smile, rubbing the dog between the ears. "I'd forgotten you were there. You're right, though. I shouldn't sit here worrying. Your master needs our help."

* * *

Detective Carter greets Finch at the door to the safe-house apartment. "Nice place you got here, Finch," she says, nodding toward the posh interior decorated in expensive neutrals, trying to put him at ease.

"Thank you, Detective," Finch replies mechanically, but his face is pinched with worry as he peers past her through the open doorway. His throat tightens when he sees that the living room is empty. "Where's John?"

"They're bringing him up right now," she reassures him—though her eyes break contact with his at the mention of Reese. "Taking it kinda slow."

Then Finch registers the pronoun, and his expression becomes quizzical. "Detective . . . did you say 'they'?"

"It's . . . a long story. A _real_ long story." Carter rolls her eyes, but there's a hint of amusement in her expression. "Look, what I want to know is this: usually you've just got one number, right? So . . . how'd you end up with a more than a dozen this time?"

Finch's stunned expression gives her pause. "Oh—so you didn't know about them, either?"

"More than a dozen?" Finch repeats in a daze. "Coming _here_?"

"What _has_ John been up to?" Carter murmurs to herself, ignoring Finch's questions. "Well, you can ask him yourself, I guess; here they come now." She shakes her head in amused consternation. "I guess _you're_ in for a surprise!"

Several dings of the elevator mark its progress to their floor while Finch holds his breath. When it arrives, he can already hear the clamor inside before the doors open. They slide apart to reveal a chattering crowd of small Asian women dressed in an sooty pajamas, which pours into the hallway. The women are speaking in Chinese, just like their Number, Finch notes absently. He can't follow much of the excited and high-pitched chatter, since all of them seem to be talking at once, but he picks up some softer expressions of concern amid the chaos.

It soon becomes clear that these are directed at the man who forms the nucleus of the crowd: John Reese, battle-worn, barefoot, and half-dressed, stumbling along in the midst of them, propped up by several of the strongest women. A heavily stained bandage is bound around his head, covering half of his dark hair and sloping above one eye, and his left forearm is similarly wrapped from wrist to elbow, looking rather worse than it did this afternoon. His face and body are smeared with soot and blood, his shoulders sagging with weariness and pain. He looks terrible. But even all that cannot diminish the fact that Reese is unmistakably, gloriously, unbelievably alive.

"Everything under control!" The announcement comes from an older woman who has pushed her way to the head of the procession with great dignity. Finch recognizes her, with some surprise, as the lady at the reception counter of the salon. She shoos him and Carter out of the doorway, declaring, "Excuse me, Meester Wren, Mees Detective. We bring him inside."

Finch's head is spinning, but he and Carter step aside obediently as the stream of women, whispering, soothing their patient, giggling sporadically, pours into the apartment. Jun is near the front of the group, and her face registers surprise when she recognizes Finch. Then she offers a shy smile. She is safe, at least.

But at what cost? For the first time, Finch gets a good look at Reese's face: ashen in color, his expression a study in calculated blankness. When he begins to marvel at how his friend mastered that dispassionate look in the midst of such injuries, he quickly dismisses the thought; the images that flash through his mind from Reese's file and from their recent past are too painful to contemplate.

Still, Finch can read the truth in those stormy blue eyes. He hasn't seen them so clouded with pain since that dreadful night when Reese burst from the stairwell, staggering, gasping, and bleeding, nearly on the point of death after Snow's ambush.

Even so, a faint glimmer appears in the blue depths like a light beneath dark waters as Reese catches sight of him. With a wan attempt at a smile, he rasps, "Finch. . . . join the party,"

The smile doesn't last long. Reese's steps falter, and he can't suppress a groan as his bearers guide him toward the couch with Finch following alongside the group. The women make worried noises as their would-be rescuer sags lower in their arms, his consciousness wavering.

Finch's mouth feels suddenly dry. Any audible expression of pain by his stoic employee is a bad sign. "Mr. Reese," Finch begins, "what hap-. . . ?" But he never finishes the question, because as the women help Reese crawl onto the couch and lie face-down, for the first time Finch sees his friend's back—or what is left of it. His knees begin to buckle. "Oh. Oh, my," he says. "John. Oh, God."

Carter quietly appears alongside Finch and slips an arm through his to support him. "Same thing I said," she agrees, with a pained sigh. "It's bad this time. Real bad."

Finch is blinking rapidly, his eyes fixed on Reese's back in utter horror, at a rare loss for words. He tries to process what he is seeing, but he can't. It feels like a nightmare, but the ghastly sight doesn't go away when he shuts his eyes and opens them again. Because where he should see the formidable muscles of his friend's shoulders and back, there is only a gory mess of yawning gashes, as if the flesh has been ripped open by monstrous claws.

Finch's mouth works for a moment without producing any sound, his mind locked on a single, all-consuming question: _What have I done? I didn't know what I was getting him into. I knew we might die, but I never imagined . . . this._

Finally, he manages to stammer out a question. "Detective . . . what—how did . . .?"

"Apparently John was snooping around the property, trying to help your number, when the employers of these kind ladies got their hands on him. There were too many of them even for John to fight off, I guess," she says grimly. "They wanted to know who he worked for. He wouldn't tell them, of course. So they tried to get it out of him . . . the hard way." Carter sees Reese grimace in anguish as his shoulder brushes against the couch as the women help to arrange him, and she has to glance away.

"Beat him with some sort of a cane," Carter says, her tone clipped. "Something from Southeast Asia, John said. Sounded pretty awful."

"Apparently," Finch says. Turning towards Carter, he speaks an unfamiliar word. "The _rotan_. A form of punishment introduced by the British colonials and adopted by the locals. It's used in the judicial system to this day."

"What happened to John doesn't look very judicial, if you ask me," Carter opines bitterly.

"No," Finch agrees. "No, it doesn't. The law limits the number of lashes that can be given as part of a criminal sentence, but John . . ." He gives Carter a look that tells her Reese's captors clearly didn't feel constrained by any such law.

They are interrupted by a clamor of confusion that has sprung up around the patient. "He say 'Feench.'" "What is 'Feench'?" A cacophony of high-pitched voices joins in the analysis of this strange word as the women try to figure out what the patient is asking for.

Above the clamor, Carter understands. "Finch, John is asking for you!" He doesn't need her hand on his elbow to urge him forward.

As quickly as he can manage—his knees are still weak from the shock—Finch limps over to the couch. "I'm Mr. Finch," he announces to the group, and the clustered women part like the Red Sea to make way for him.


	19. Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19

When Finch draws nearer, he finds that Reese's wounds look even worse from close up, if that were even possible. Automatically, his mathematical mind begins to estimate the number of blows his friend received, but he soon abandons the attempt. Such a bloody tangle of stripes scores his friend's back that Finch can't even begin to sort them out. What he is quite certain of, though, based on the staggering damage he surveys, is that Reese was tortured for quite some time, and quite expertly. This thought draws out a knot of emotions that is just as tangled as his friend's wounds: shock, anger, sadness, guilt.

"John." At first, Finch can't manage anything more. He blinks back tears.

Reese is too tired and hurting to hide his pain by now. His face is contorted as he turns his head slowly toward Finch, tensing his shoulders to avoid strain on his wounds. Even so, he winces as the movement raises fresh stripes of blood along the lacerations that cross near his neck. To Finch's surprise, his expression is not just pained but apologetic. "Harold," he rasps weakly, "Guess I kind of . . . botched this one."

Finch is stunned. "What do you mean, John? It's not your fault that some—some _sadist_ did this to you. What matters is that our Number is safe, as she clearly is!"

"But she . . . had to . . . save me, too," Reese admits ruefully, indicating Jun with a careful shift of his chin.

Casting a glance around the group of newly-liberated women, Finch sees nothing but relief on their faces. They are seated on the floor on the other side of the living room, talking quietly, with frequent admiring looks and murmurs of concern directed toward the wounded man on the couch. Jun catches Finch's eye as he scans the group, and again offers a shy smile. He sees that like all the rescued workers, she is tired and dirty, and her hands and arms have suffered a few minor scrapes and burns. But her face shines with new-found confidence and hope.

"I have to say, she hardly seems the worse for it," Finch says wryly, turning back to Reese. "In fact, she seems far happier and more self-possessed than when I met her this afternoon. And she appears to have brought along quite a few friends on her flight to freedom—a veritable Harriet Tubman, it seems. So I would say you carried out your duties admirably." Finch pauses, then he quips, "I do hope you won't expect me to let them all move into the library, though, as you did when you freed Bear."

"Actually . . ." Reese begins, a faint spark of humor breaking through his stormy eyes, "not . . . the library, . . . exactly, but . . . I have . . . some ideas."

"We'll talk about it later," Finch says. He can see how much effort it costs his friend to speak. "Rest now. Dr. Madhani will be here soon."

For once, Reese doesn't argue that he doesn't need any one else's help. He's learned that lesson painfully enough for one night. Closing his eyes, he whispers mischievously, "He'll have to . . . get past . . . Anna." Then, exhaustion overtakes pain for the moment, and he falls into a shallow, fitful sleep

Finch dims the lights, and as he does so, he notices that the women's chatter has quieted and some are beginning to yawn. He realizes that they must be exhausted after the evening's adventures. Like a good host, he directs them to a linen closet, where they find enough blankets, towels, and spare dog beds to provide some comfort for the night. Then, huddled like Girl Scouts around campfires, conversing quietly, they recall their incredible escape and speculate about what the future might hold for them.

A little while later, Finch looks up, startled by a voice close beside him. Blinking away sleep, he finds Anna standing beside the armchair where he has settled. He rubs his stiff neck. Although he meant to watch over Reese, he must have dozed off. "Is Dr. Madhani here yet? And where is Detective Carter?"

"Doctor not come yet," Anna replies. "And Mees Detective, she go to store with Jun, bring food for women." Then she patiently repeats her original question, which Finch had missed the first time in his drowsiness. "You drink tea?"

"Why—yes, thank you very much," Finch says, accepting the steaming cup, an unexpected gift.

The genial beverage does little to soothe the clenching of his stomach, though, as he sees Reese shifting in distress again on the couch, letting out intermittent moans. Finch wishes that he had asked Dr. Madhani more about the dosing and administration of stronger pain relief during his friend's last misadventure.

Anna sees his worry, and gestures toward Reese with a motherly look. "You friend—I know you worry about him, but he be okay. We take good care him. Make him good health again. Now, drink you tea."

Anna gives him a departing pat on the shoulder, and Finch returns an awkward smile. He appreciates her assurances about Reese, even if he is unconvinced. But that's before he sees her work her magic.

A few minutes later, she settles herself in a dining room chair beside the couch with a cooking pot full of boiled and cooled water and a stack of clean dish towels. After she murmurs something in Reese's ear, he responds with a faint nod, despite his closed eyes. Then she soaks a cloth in the water, wrings it out, and gently begins to clean the wounds on his back. His torn flesh is so raw, though, that even her careful touch makes him flinch away and dig his fingers into the couch cushions with a throaty rumble of pain.

But then as Finch watches in wonder, Anna pauses to murmur to the tall man, smoothing his damp hair until his ragged breathing evens out and his fingers loosen their grip. As Anna resumes her work, she begins to sing softly—the same tune she sang earlier as Reese lay in the cool grass. His tense muscles seem to relax, as if she is reciting some calming spell.

"Amazing," Finch says under his breath. He has never seen anyone have this effect on his self-sufficient, battle-hardened friend—nor has he ever seen Reese submit to such ministrations. Nor, for that matter, has any of their Numbers has ever offered him a cup of tea. Somehow the women they have just rescued are now giving instead of receiving.

As Finch is still pondering these anomalies, Dr. Madhani arrives at last, apologizing for the delay. Finch ushers him into the strange and crowded sickroom, and the doctor sucks in a sharp breath when he sees the injured man stretched out on the couch. Immediately, he pulls out a stethoscope and begins checking Reese's vital signs, quietly asking him questions about his injuries.

After a short time, Dr. Madhani opens his bag, pulls on gloves, then prepares a syringe, which he empties into Reese's thigh. Finch can see the relief on Reese's face even before it takes effect, at the mere prospect of his pain being eased. While he waits for the drug to work, the doctor quietly reports the initial results of his examination to Finch. "Your friend has been beaten very badly, as you can see plainly enough. The bruising on the chest suggests a number of cracked ribs, which is consistent with the trauma he described. The wounds on his shoulders and back will need to be cleaned thoroughly to prevent infection, particularly because such a large area of the body is involved. Besides a concussion, the injuries to head appear to be more painful than serious. As for his arm, I have not been able to remove the bandage, but I suspect that extensive sutures and perhaps other repairs will be necessary. He will, of course, need fluids, blood, antibiotics, and more opiates to control the pain. Is there, perhaps, a more suitable room where I can tend to him?"

By the time Dr. Madhani concludes his summary with these requests, the catalog of Reese's injuries has left Finch feeling more than a little overwhelmed. Still, he manages to reply, "You'll find one bedroom furnished with a standard hospital bed, and a full range of common sickroom supplies. Anything else you need can be acquired."

"Good," Dr. Madhani says, and briskly begins giving orders. The women are eager to help, so the preparations proceed quickly. Once floor lamps have been put into place, the bed is stripped to its sheets and covered with towels, and a table is set up with the doctor's tools, several of the women help move Reese to the fresh bed before returning to their own. Within fifteen minutes of Dr. Madhani's arrival, he and Anna (who is radiating pride at having been selected to assist him) have scrubbed up and are taking their places beside the bed, with a bewildering array of medical supplies close at hand.

Finch averts his eyes discreetly while the doctor and Anna cut away the patient's remaining clothes, then cover his lower body with another sheet. Soon an IV line is set up, supplying fluids, additional morphine, and other medications to Reese's ravaged body, and Finch feels a load lifted from his shoulders as the tightness of his friend's jaw eases just a little.

Still, as they set to work cleaning and assessing Reese's wounds, every sound or movement that evinces his friend's pain sends a pang through Finch's heart, sharp as a knife. Anna's singing and soothing along with their limited supply of morphine can only do so much, and when the doctor explores a wound in Reese's shoulder until he cries out, Finch has to leave the room to compose himself.

Tenting his hands in front of his face, Finch tries to breathe deeply. He wishes he had brought Bear with him to lick his hand and provide some degree of comfort, however undeserved, because he feels like a liar, a charlatan. He had promised Reese a purpose; isn't that how he had convinced Reese to sign on to this lunatic enterprise in the first place? True, he had tempered his offer with the warning that this new line of work might well end fatally. What he had not anticipated—had never even imagined, in fact—was _this_ : the heavy toll, both mental and physical, that their mission would take on both of them along the way. Finch can hardly bear the thought that he has in some way been responsible for causing another human being, much less a friend, such horrific pain.

A compassionate hand squeezes his shoulder in the midst of these grim reflections, and Finch turns to find Carter beside him.

"Shelly and I just got back. She's gonna make some food for the ladies." She must notice the red rims around Finch's eyes, because she says softly, "He's going to be okay, Finch. You know John. He can survive just about anything."

Finch returns a wan smile, though the lines in his forehead remain deeply etched. "I don't doubt you're right, Detective," he replies. "It's just . . ." He chooses his words carefully. "When I hired John, I . . . I warned him that we might die. But I never thought . . ." His words trail off as his throat tightens.

Carter studies their friend through the open doorway. Reese's eyes are closed; his face is marked by pain and exhaustion, but surprisingly peaceful now that the morphine has taken effect. The sight of his tortured body is softened a little by the care with Anna and Dr. Madhani are tending his wounds. Still humming softly, Anna is wrapping gauze around his wrists where the handcuffs have carved deep grooves, and the doctor is wearing a headlamp, his brow furrowed with concentration as he tends to the wound above Reese's ear.

There a light in Carter's eyes as she turns back to Finch. " _He_ knew," she says. "John knew." She pauses. "I know you've never been in the armed forces, Finch. But something you learn fast is that nothing worth having comes without a price. Freedom, peace, friendship, love—I don't care what. Sometimes that price is just being bored silly for hours and days and weeks on end, when nothing's happening, shining a lot of boots and eating weird food out of foil packets and waiting around. Then once in a while, all of a sudden, all hell breaks loose, and the price gets . . ."

Carter pauses, and is distracted by the sound of Reese shifting and making a sleepy sound of pain as the doctor loosens the stained gauze from his arm where Carter wrapped it; she bites her lip as she sees the results. Then she says softly, "Well, sometimes the price gets a lot higher." As she continues, Finch is surprised to detect something besides the weight of experience in Carter's voice, something that sounds surprisingly like a note of tenderness. "There's not many people willing to pay that high a price. John's a rare man who is. All you did, Finch, was give him a second chance—a chance to do what he does best."

Pondering her words, Finch swallows and studies the ceiling. "Thank you, Detective," he says carefully. "I know that what you say is true, and I'm grateful indeed for people like John—and for you, of course. But . . . I still have to wonder . . . sometimes . . ." His voice falters, then he ventures, "whether what we do . . . is really worth the cost."

Carter's mind flashes back to a dark alleyway: two shots fired point blank; two powerful punches to the chest that would have been two bullets in her heart if Reese hadn't warned her to wear a vest that night. She turns to Finch. "I can't do the math for you, Harold, but if John hadn't been there when my CI turned bad on me . . ." Her voice trails off, leaving the rest to Finch's imagination. "All I can say is, that what you do, what _John_ does—well, it's worth more than you'll ever know."

Although Finch tries to formulate a worthy response, he can only nod mutely, feeling as out of his depth as an engineering student at an art gallery mixer. Finally, he manages to speak the only words that will fit past the lump in his throat. "Thank you, Detective. I—I think I know what you mean."

"You sound tired," Carter says suddenly. "Go rest awhile. I'll come let you know if anything happens with John."

"Are you sure?" says Finch, but he knows that she's right. The persistent ache in his back reminds him that standing up all night would be highly inadvisable.

"I'm _sure_ ," says Carter, "now, shoo."

"Thank you, Detective. For everything," says Finch. Then he shoos as instructed, gratefully resuming his seat in the living room with a fresh cup of tea. As he warms his hands around the steaming mug, he studies the scene before him like a child looking in through a shop window, and a wave of conflicting emotions washes over him again.

Feelings aren't his strong suit, any more than they are Reese's. He finds them cumbersome to sort out, much less to process thoroughly. There's relief, he supposes, that their Number is safe, and that Reese came out alive; distress that this mission has brought his friend such terrible suffering; appreciation for Carter's help and support, and for Dr. Madhani's and Anna's medical skills.

But there's something more—something he can't quite put his finger on. As if searching for an answer, Finch looks out over the sleeping salon workers scattered across the floor and towards the window beyond, with its glimpse of the overcast New York skyline. He is so focused on the scene that he doesn't hear Jun come up quietly beside him.

"Mr. Feench?" she says, her voice low, so as not to wake the others. He looks up, and she does not wait for him to reply. "I want say thank you, thank you many time, to you and to you friend. I never met man like him, who is so brave and kind to help people he not know. He very good man. Please, when he is well, tell him I say this."

"Thank you, Jun. I will tell him," Finch replies sincerely. "And—thank _you_ , for saving his life in return."

With her eyes lowered, she says, "I wish I can do more to pay him. He is good man. You are _both_ good man. Thank you." She offers a parting bow before returning to her heap of blankets on the floor.

All in a rush, Finch identifies the missing piece: a profound sense of gratitude that suddenly envelops him, casting a warm halo around the night's harsh realities together with its unexpected victories, encircling them all together like the soft radiance of a candle flame. Finch finds himself marveling at this array of capable women who have escaped their oppressors and helped to save his friend's life; at his own role in their liberation; at Reese's bravery and self-sacrifice in bringing them to freedom. And perhaps most of all, at the way in which a mismatched jumble of individuals, bound together by a common cause, can work to make a real difference in the world, just as apparently random strings of letters and numbers can be brought together to create miracles of code.

There is certainty tinged with sadness in Finch's voice as he says quietly, to himself, "You're right, Detective Carter. This endeavor will likely cost us everything in the end. But it's worth everything we have to give."


	20. Chapter 20

CHAPTER 20

Three days later, Finch arrived at the door of the apartment a few minutes before noon, with Bear at his side. Even with the door still closed, he could hear the cheerful clamor of activity inside.

The door opened promptly in response to his knock, and Jun stood smiling on the other side. "Hello, Mr. Wren. We are glad you able to come today—and also you big dog!"

A dozen more of the rescued women were bustling about the living room behind her, preparing the table for Jun and Anna had insisted on staying to sit with Reese during the first few critical days of his recovery, motivated both by gratitude and by a sense of responsibility for his condition. To keep the noise down, the other women had been moved into a neighboring apartment (which Finch had swiftly acquired at double the market rate, to the owner's delight) until more permanent arrangements could be made. The invitation to a reunion lunch today had been unexpected, but Finch found it little more surprising and far more pleasant than any of the other twists that Jun's case case had taken thus far.

"I appreciate the invitation, Miss Chan. And I hope you're well?" Finch replied cordially. But Jun could see that he was distracted, anxiously scanning the room beyond. "John . . . is he . . .?"

Jun cast a quick glance behind her, then smiled as she began to say, "Ah, you friend—"

But Anna interrupted, beaming as she threw the door wide. "Come in. Sit down. Eat!" Aromas of Chinese sauces and spices wafted invitingly through the open door, and Finch took an appreciative whiff as he stepped inside. Bear, too, sniffed the air, eager to investigate this delicious new array of aromas. But then the dog's ears perked up, and he gave a soft whine of recognition as he picked up a familiar scent.

"It smells wonderful," Finch said, marveling at the spread of Chinese food laid out on the table—as well as at the fact that it hadn't come in white paper take-out boxes. "Though of course we won't stay too long, since I'm sure John still needs his rest. And I hope it's alright that I brought Bear; he's been rather ill at ease with his master away."

The truth is, Finch was feeling rather uneasy himself; his hand was damp with sweat where he clutched Bear's leash and his knees felt weak. Each time he had returned to the apartment over the past few days, it had brought back a flood of wrenching memories of his friend's arrival here, brutally beaten and too weak to stand.

Of course, Finch knew he had no good reason at this point to be anxious about his friend's condition. Every update from the home-care nurse he hired on Dr. Madhani's recommendation had been uneventful, or even encouraging. Amid the routine reports of switching out IV bags, administering medications, and changing bandages, he had gleaned the happy news that Reese's vital signs had normalized, his wounds had shown no signs of infection, and he had been able to take some food by mouth. Still, Finch had yet to see his friend fully conscious again; during his brief visits, Reese has always been adrift in a morphine haze, his pain kept in check at the expense of his full awareness.

Finch cleared his throat, finding it suddenly tight. "I was hoping—perhaps—that if Mr. Reese is in a condition to receive visitors right now, that I might let Bear . . ."

Then, to his surprise, a familiar, gently gravelly voice called out a greeting from the kitchen. Finch could not have been happier or more stunned. He had expected to find Reese still bedridden from his ordeal. By now, he realizes, he should have known better than to underestimate his friend's remarkable powers of recovery. Bear is less restrained in his response, wagging his tail vigorously and prancing with excitement at the sound of Reese's voice.

"Finch, I'm glad you could come for lunch. Anna's quite a cook," Reese said, sauntering out into the living room—rather more stiffly than usual, Finch observed. He was holding a steaming mug of coffee in his right hand, while his left arm, still thickly bandaged, hung in a sling close to his side. At the sight of the dog, though, his eyes shone with boyish delight. "Bear!"

At the sound of his name, Bear tugged his leash out of Finch's hand and bounded toward Reese with a bark of joy. "Bear, be careful—please—" Finch cautioned helplessly, cringing at the prospect of a clash between the dog's enthusiasm and Reese's injuries.

Instead, Reese called out a command in Dutch, and Bear skidded to a halt at his feet, and looked up attentively, as if awaiting further orders. "Good boy, Bear." Reese set down his mug so he could scratch behind the dog's ears, and Bear offered a brisk bark of greeting, then panted happily in response. "I missed you, too," Reese murmured. The dog gave a little whine as he sniffed at his master's bandaged arm and nosed his side, before licking his left hand tentatively. "I'll be okay, buddy," Reese assured him in a low voice, then he stood and retrieved his coffee .

Finch couldn't help but smile to see his friend up and on his feet again, looking haggard and rather the worse for wear, but content. Patches of white gauze still covered the wounds on his head, accentuating the pallor of his bruised face, and his wrists were ringed with ugly scabs where he'd been chained. There was an uncharacteristic carefulness in his movements, Finch noticed, and a tightness at the corners of his mouth that intensified whenever he raised his mug to take a sip. And no wonder; his battered back must still be painfully raw. Although he wore his usual white dress shirt, it hung untucked, and the sleeves were rolled up above the elbows; an array of odd lumps and bulges betrayed the yards of bandages wrapped around his torso beneath it.

Finch swallowed hard, hesitant to admit to his own protective instincts. "Mr. Reese, are you sure you're well enough to . . . that is to say, shouldn't you, perhaps, be—"

"Before you tell me to go lie down and rest, Finch, the answer is, yes, Dr. Madhani said I could get out of bed." Reese's mouth quirked with humor as he added, "But I can't come back to work just yet. He won't be a happy man if I start throwing punches and tear out all his stitches."

"Ah—I'm glad to hear that your recovery is proceeding so swiftly, Mr. Reese," Finch said awkwardly, "Of course, as they say, 'You can't keep a good man down.'"

Reese took another sip of his coffee, then dismissed the implied compliment with a wry half-smile. "I wouldn't know."

"Oh, I'm not so sure about that, Mr. Reese. I think some of your new friends here would beg to disagree," Finch said, surveying the laughing, chattering women before turning a look of approval on his friend.

The tall man, who could be so imposing in action, seemed suddenly self-conscious, shifting his eyes toward the floor almost coyly. When he looked up again, a cloud seemed to have passed across the clear blue of his eyes. "What about Mr. Lee?" Reese asked. "Is he going to give Jun and her friends any more trouble?"

"Ah, that," Finch said, studying his shoes, then the ceiling. "It turns out that Mr. Lee succumbed to smoke inhalation. And while I would hardly wish such an end on any human being . . . I must admit that I am quite relieved to have him out of the picture."

Reese nodded his agreement, suppressing a wry smile at Finch's admission. "And his gang?"

"After the police discovered the explosives workshop in his basement, they called in the FBI to assist with the investigation. There will be serious charges in store for anyone that they can connect with the operation. By the way, you might be interested to know that Detective Carter said that the fire marshal told her that if all of the raw materials and explosives in that basement had ignited, the entire block would be little more than a smoking crater."

"Impressive," Reese admitted with a raised eyebrow. "And what about our new friends? They're living under stolen Social Security numbers, and they can't hide out here forever. I've been thinking we might be able to do something more for them."

"The delicacy of their situation did occur to me," agreed Finch, "and during your convalescence these past few days, I've begun applying for visas and work permits to enable them to remain in the country legally, at least on a temporary basis. It's a daunting process and may take awhile to complete, but I think I may have found some ways, with a well-placed donation or two, to . . . _expedite_ it."

"Good work, Finch," Reese replied with a grin, genuinely impressed. "Sounds like you've gotten everything wrapped up while I've been lying around, stuffed full of drugs."

"It's the least I could do, John," Finch said sincerely. "Your rest was well-deserved. I only wish it could have been a more pleasant respite from the rigors of our work." He hesitated. "Speaking of which, if you ever decide—that is, if you ever regret your decision to take part in this endeavor, well, I wouldn't blame you if—"

"Finch," Reese said. There was a quiet conviction in his voice that instantly stemmed Finch's rambling tide of words. "I wouldn't give up this job for the world. It's the best thing I've ever done in my life. After all, I wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for you—and now, I owe _them_ my life, too." Reese gave a nod toward the women.

A peculiar look crossed Finch's face as he considered this. "You know," he says, "When they brought you here that night and Carter told me what they had done for you—it made me wonder: are we the ones who are saving the Numbers, or are they, perhaps, . . . the ones who are saving us?"

Before Reese can offer his opinion, Anna comes bustling up, herding them toward the table, "Too many talk! Come, eat! Food is get cold. And you, John, you make youself wear out. Here, Meester Wren, take a sit!" Holding Reese's good arm, Anna guides him to a chair with the attentiveness of a mother hen, while Jun offers Finch the seat opposite him. Bear, torn between his two allegiances, gets tangled up with several squealing and giggling women as he tries to decide where to sit, before he compromises by lying down beneath the table.

As the happy chaos of the meal begins, Reese never gets a chance to voice a response to Finch's thoughts. But the subtle smile he throws Finch across the table, a smile that softens the lines of pain in his face and extends to the bright blue of his eyes, is all the answer Finch needs.

THE END


	21. Author's Note: About the Story

About the Story

I couldn't find a better place to include this information, since there's not really a place for an "Author's Note." So here it is, in case you're interested. This story was inspired by an investigative report entitled the "The Price of Nice Nails" published in The New York Times in 2015 (see their website for the link; I wasn't able to post it here). It examined the conditions endured by immigrant workers employed in New York City area nail salons. As soon as I read it, I thought it sounded like a perfect "lost" case for the POI boys and the Machine early in the show. (Although salon owners later disputed the report's findings, their arguments were aimed more at justifying their business practices then at refuting the claims it made.)

The Korean nail salon owner, Mr. Lee, and his treatment of his Chinese employees as "second-class citizens" reflects the actual ethnic dynamics reported in the article, and as such, it not meant as a generalization about the behavior of people of any particular race. Similarly, the patterns of speech employed by the non-native speakers of English are do not merely reflect stereotypes, but are based on research and observation regarding grammatical mistakes commonly made by Asian speakers of English. Several examples, in fact, come directly from my Korean-born Taekwondo teacher!

Speaking of Taekwondo, I have drawn on my limited knowledge of hand-to-hand combat as a Yellow Belt (hopefully Orange in another month or so!) to write the sequences of moves in the fight scenes. My knowledge of guns and explosives is even more limited, so I have avoided venturing beyond generalizations, since that only tends to annoy people who know their weaponry.

For Reese's thoughts and feelings regarding his capture by Mr. Lee, I was inspired by the accounts of Vietnam-era American POWs. Their bravery, resilience, and even humor under the most horrendous conditions—often endured over the course of years rather than hours—inspire and amaze me every time I read their stories.

As always, thank you for your comments and reviews, and thanks for reading!


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